


Phoenix Burning

by RedRowan



Series: The Boxer's Daughter [6]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bisexual Female Character, Canon Disabled Character, Established Relationship, F/M, Female Matt Murdock, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Character of Color, Post-Season/Series 02, Rule 63, girl! Matt Murdock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-09-30 00:10:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10148306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedRowan/pseuds/RedRowan
Summary: Hope is a dangerous thing.Mattie and Foggy have just settled into a fragile peace in the wake of the Hand's attack on Hell's Kitchen, when Wilson Fisk starts to make good on his threat to dismantle their lives.  As his attacks tear down everything around them, they're forced to cling tighter to each other and to the people who care about them in order to fight back.





	1. The New Normal

**Author's Note:**

> *deep breath* We made it! We're officially out of canon! This story owes a huge debt to Frank Miller's _Born Again_ arc, mostly because I'm pretty sure that's where the series is heading. Hope you enjoy!

Part 1: Don’t Leave Me Here Alone

_For me, love’s like the wind, unseen, unknown._  
_I see the trees are bending where it’s been,_  
_I know that it leaves wreckage where it’s blown._  
_I really don’t know what ‘I love you’ means._  
_I think it means ‘Don’t leave me here alone.’_ -“Sonnet”, Neil Gaiman

***

Chapter 1: The New Normal

In retrospect, they probably should have seen this situation coming.

Ever since Mattie started working at the Tenant Rights Coalition, anyway. Foggy’s clients at HC&B tend towards the wealthier end of the spectrum, and a lot of them have made their money in real estate. Most of _those_ knew how to take advantage of rapid gentrification, using the sort of dirty tricks that the TRC was designed to protect tenants against. The sort of tricks that Nelson  & Murdock had gained a wealth of experience fighting. Terry, Mattie’s supervisor, _loves_ that she’d gone up against Armand Tully and Wilson Fisk.

But Nelson & Murdock is gone, and now Nelson is sitting at a conference table with his mouth open as Murdock walks in.

“Mattie,” he says.

“Foggy?” she says, feigning surprise. She’s a terrible actor, or maybe that’s just because Foggy knows her. “Are you…?”

“Representing Mr Michaelson,” he says, unamused. “You?”

“Representing the Nuñezes,” she says, waving a hand in the general direction of the middle-aged couple following her. They look confused, and ask her a question in Spanish. She replies, and Foggy catches the word _marido_. Husband.

Michaelson leans over. “You know her?” Foggy looks over, and the guy is ogling Mattie’s ass.

“She’s my wife,” Foggy says. “Mattie, can I talk to you outside?” He slips his hand around to the small of her back and guides her out the door. “How the hell did this happen?” he says, once they’ve closed the door.

“Marisol’s still sick, so Terry asked me to cover some of her cases. I swear, I didn’t know you were the one assigned to this.”

“OK, well, you need to call Terry and tell him to get somebody else to cover.”

“I’m the only one who’s free who speaks Spanish. Besides, we’re in the middle of _your_ offices, _you_ find someone to take over.”

“I can’t do that, Michaelson specifically asked Hogarth for me!”

She shrugs indifferently, and Foggy groans, running his hands through his hair.

“OK, OK,” he says, “legally, we just have to disclose our relationship, and leave it to _them_ to decide if they want different representation.”

“So we’re passing the buck?”

“Yeah, let’s do that.” He reaches for the door, but Mattie hasn’t moved. She’s just grinning. “What?”

“No, it’s just - that guy? Really?”

He sighs.

“You have thirty seconds to gloat,” he says.

“You’re defending a slum lord,” she says, taking _way_ too much delight in this. “A capitalist one-percenter, and what’s that phrase that Jessica uses for you guys?” She’s advancing on him, tilting her face up.

“‘Scumbag henchmen of corporate America,’” he says. Her grin widens.

“Yeah, _that’s_ what you’re turning into.”

“I hate you.”

She kisses him, a light peck on his lips. “Liar.”

“Creep. Let’s go disclose.”

Mattie has a quiet conversation in Spanish with the Nuñezes, while Foggy sits down next to Michaelson.

“So, like I said, Mattie is my wife. If the Nuñezes want to keep her as their attorney, you’ll be very much within your rights to request new representation. I can recommend -“

“You gonna let her win?” Michaelson interrupts.

“No, of course not.”

Michaelson shrugs. “I wanted the guy who defended the Punisher, so that’s what I’ll get.”

Foggy sighs inwardly. _That guy?_ He’s not going to let Mattie win, but…he may not disagree with her assessment of his client, either.

Mattie smiles and sits across from Foggy, the Nuñezes next to her.

“Mr and Mrs Nuñez have decided that I’ll continue to represent them until Ms Acosta is well enough to take over,” she says smoothly. She pulls out her laptop. “So, I understand that you’re willing to discuss a timeline for repairs?”

It’s funny. In the last few months of Nelson & Murdock’s existence, Foggy had forgotten how _good_ Mattie can be when she’s not distracted. And she’s focussed now, and it’s all on _him_ , and he suddenly feels a little bad for any ninja or street hood who’s gone up against Daredevil. It doesn’t help that his client is a slippery asshole with no intention of following through on anything he agrees to, and Mattie can tell when he’s lying. She arches an eyebrow at Foggy when Michaelson tells her a blatant lie, and Foggy almost wants to say, _Yeah, I know._

She calls Michaelson’s bluff, and Foggy is mildly impressed, until he realizes that that was a trick that he taught her.

_Fine. Two can play that game._

He lets her have it, and they’re attacking and parrying with an abandon they haven’t had since law school. Mattie’s tossing Spanish translations over to her clients almost as fast as she ripostes, and Foggy catches her grin that tells him that she’s enjoying this as much as he is. He glances over at Michaelson, who’s glowering as Mattie and Foggy hammer out a timeline.

At the end of the meeting, Michaelson pointedly does not shake Mattie or the Nuñezes’ hands, and only gruffly tells Foggy that he’ll have his assistant email him. Foggy walks the Nuñezes to the elevator, but Mattie bids them goodbye and tells them she’ll be in touch. She runs her hand down Foggy’s arm as the elevator doors close on the Nuñezes.

“Where’s the restroom?” she says.

He walks her to the handicapped restroom near his office, and she pulls him in. He locks the door as he pushes her against it, his tongue already in her mouth. He shoves her coat and suit jacket off her shoulders, and she lets them drop to the floor before wrapping her arms around his neck. He grabs her ass with both hands, turning them around so she’s propped up against the sink. She moans a little as he kisses her neck, then she’s unbuckling his belt, sliding her hand into his pants.

“I…oh, fuck…wait, I don’t have any condoms,” he says. Because he is _this close_ to bending her over and having his way with her. And she grins.

“OK,” she says.

She moves _fast_ , twisting him around so that his ass is against the sink, and she’s dropping to her knees in front of him, and he has to press his fist against his mouth so that none of his colleagues will hear what he sounds like when he’s getting a blowjob. From his wife. From his very talented wife, who is definitely using her super-senses in a highly irresponsible way right now.

He comes in her mouth when she takes him deep, and she swallows. When she stands up, she’s smiling like the cat who ate the canary. ( _No, bad image._ ) He doesn’t mind the faint salty taste on her lips when he pulls her against him and turns them back around. He gets his hands under her ass, and she gets the idea, hitching herself up on the little porcelain counter next to the sink and wrapping her legs around him. He pushes her skirt up, and they do a fast, awkward little shimmy as he pushes her skirt up and pulls her pantyhose and underwear down, then his fingers are buried between her legs, stroking at the wet heat there. She doesn’t take long to come, her head leaning back against the mirror, and he buries his face in her neck, breathing her in.

Then she starts laughing, and he starts laughing, and they’re holding each other up, and can’t stop laughing.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” she gasps out.

“Yep, we’ve reached a new level of classy.”

They’re still laughing, giggling, really, as they try to clean themselves up and rearrange their clothing to something presentable.

“Anyone out there?” he says as he helps her into her coat.

“Nope, coast is clear.”

The coast isn’t _exactly_ clear, because Jessica Jones runs into them at the end of the hall.

“Nelson, was just looking for you,” she says, eyeing Mattie suspiciously.

“Jessica, have you met my wife Mattie?”

“I think we -“ Mattie starts, but she cuts herself off and holds out her hand. “Sorry. Hi.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jessica says in that tone Foggy is never sure whether it’s sarcasm or not.

“I’ll just be a sec,” he says. He leads Mattie away, and when he looks back at Jessica, he’s pretty sure she knows exactly what they were doing. When he gets to his office after saying goodbye to Mattie, Jessica is lounging in the chair in front of his desk. She gives him a knowing look. “What?”

She shrugs. “Just hope you used protection.”

“She’s my _wife_ , and it’s none of your business.”

Something flickers across Jessica’s face. “Oh, shit, you guys aren’t _trying_ , or something like that?”

“No, no…” Foggy stammers. “Nothing like that.”

“Good. Last thing I need is you going all baby-crazy on me.”

The words “baby-crazy” keep rattling around Foggy’s head all day, mixed up in the eroticism of the memory of what happened in the bathroom, and the knowledge that if Mattie had agreed, he wouldn’t have cared about not having a condom.

And if that had happened… His mind starts jumping ahead, flashes of an imaginary life, that road not taken.

Not taken yet.

Claire is sitting with Mattie in the living room when Foggy gets home. He’s not surprised; Mattie has a weekly phone call with Luke Cage from Seagate, and Claire usually comes by afterwards to hear the updates on Luke’s case. Mattie, although she is technically still Luke’s attorney in New York, doesn’t have much to do for the case, since she can’t practice in Georgia. She’d found a good lawyer in Savannah for him, and has taken care of most of Luke’s legal troubles in New York, but Luke still calls her every week to let her know he’s not being abused or experimented on, or any of the hundred horrible things that could be happening to him in Seagate. Foggy hasn’t pointed out that Mattie’s relationship to Luke has moved well beyond the professional and is now definitely friendship.

He finds it comforting, knowing Mattie has a friend who’s bulletproof, even if he is prison down in Georgia.

Claire leaves, saying she has a self-defence class to get to, and Foggy reheats some of the Chinese food leftovers in the fridge.

“So, uh, I was thinking,” he says oh-so-casually as they sit down to eat.

“Dangerous habit, that,” Mattie says, but she’s not grinning.

“Well, Jessica knows that we had a quickie in the bathroom, just to warn you.”

Mattie runs her hand over her face. “Just as long as she doesn’t tell Marci.”

“Unlikely. But…she said something. That got me thinking…” He stabs at a shrimp with his chopsticks, and looks over to see Mattie with her head cocked. “Do you want kids?”

Apparently, he could still surprise her.

“What? Uh, y-yeah, I guess,” she stammers.

“I just mean, we haven’t talked about that, not really.” _We haven’t really talked about the future, much_. Talking about the future brings up too many painful memories.

He watches her mouth move silently, before she puts her thoughts together.

“Do _you_ want kids?” she says. She already knows the answer.

“Yeah. I do. With you, in case that needs saying.”

That, at least, gets a smile out of her. “Doesn’t need saying.”

“And, I was thinking, that now wouldn’t be a bad time to…start trying? I mean, we both have good jobs that actually pay us, nobody’s actively trying to kill us, and Hell’s Kitchen doesn’t seem like it’s about to collapse around us, so…” Mattie isn’t saying anything. “But only if you want to,” he finishes.

“I do!” she says, a little more forcefully than he’s expecting. “I do, it’s just - I didn’t think…I didn’t think we’d be having this conversation so soon,” she says quietly. “And there’s Daredevil, and, I mean, I can’t take mat leave until my probation period’s over, so that’s another couple of months, and -“

“Mattie,” Foggy says, putting his hand over hers, because she’s talking too fast. “If you don’t want to -“

“I do, I want to, but…” She runs her hand through her hair. “I never had a mother, OK? The closest I ever had was your mom, and I met her when I was eighteen. I don’t know…I don’t know how to be a mother, and what if - what if our kid gets as screwed up as I am?”

Foggy kneels next to her and puts his arms around her, and curses Stick’s memory in the privacy of his own head.

“You’re wrong,” he says instead. “You know everything that’s important about being a parent. Because you had your dad, and you knew he loved you.”

She let him hold her for a moment, then pulls away, visibly collecting herself.

“Let me think about it?” she says.

“Sure. Like you said, we’ve still got a couple of months before we can even start trying, so…take your time.”

Mattie doesn’t mention the conversation, for a little while, but Foggy can’t help looking at the beginnings of spring as the city thaws and thinking of rejuvenation and new life, maybe. It makes him feel hopeful.

Mattie would tell him that hope is a dangerous thing.

It starts when their landlord calls him and tells him that he hasn’t received the last two months’ rent. Foggy and Mattie have an automatic payment set up from their joint account, and they’ve been diligently depositing portions of their paychecks, so there’s no way that could have happened. Foggy spends two hours on the phone with the bank, who tell him that the payments went through, according to their records.

Then Mattie gets a call that she still owes money for her student loans. She’d paid them off in full months ago, with the cheque Elektra gave her.

Two weeks later, they’re notified that the IRS is auditing them. And that their assets are frozen until the audit is complete.

Scott, one of the tax lawyers at HC&B, goes over Foggy’s accounts as a favor, and points out some irregularities (most of which Foggy mentally labels as “Elektra”), but “nothing of the magnitude that would lead them to freeze your assets.”

Mattie stays out later and later at night. Foggy wonders about the state of the perps she drops off at the 15th with “For Det. Mahoney” notes pinned to their chests. He doesn’t ask Brett.

Instead, he finds Mattie at Fogwell’s, pummelling a heavy bag.

“Scott said he’ll help me talk to the bank -“

She jumps and kicks the bag, hard.

“Look, I know it’s a lot to deal with, but we’ll get through it,” he finishes lamely.

“It’s more than ‘a lot to deal with,’” she says.

“Yeah, it sucks, but we’ll just take it one day at a time -“

“You think this is a coincidence?” she snaps, and Foggy refuses to acknowledge the fear that’s been growing in his mind.

“Mattie, we’re talking about the bank, the student loan people, and the IRS. Do you really think someone can coordinate all three of those?” She doesn’t say anything, just clenches her jaw. “Don’t say it.”

“He said he’d dismantle our lives,” she whispers.

“He’s in prison, in _maximum security_ -“

“He’s running the place. He got Frank out, he literally choked me in front of a guard -“

“He’s still behind bars.” He puts his hands on her shoulders, and wishes they weren’t shaking. “He can’t hurt you,” he lies.

She steps back.

“We both know that’s not true,” she says. There’s nothing Foggy can say to that.

He supposes that he’s lucky that Mattie’s not the type to say “I told you so.” Because when he’s standing in the middle of his office with a subpoena in his hands, that’s all he can think.

A subpoena. For a grand jury hearing. In which he is the defendant.

He’s accused of witness tampering in the Frank Castle case.

He marvels that his hands are still steady as he calls Mattie.

“You’re right,” he tells her. “He’s coming for us.”

He thinks of a gun on a table, just within reach.

_He can’t know. There’s no way he can know._

Mattie has her subpoena, too.

“Foggy?” she says over the phone. “Foggy, are you there?”

Three weeks ago, they’d been talking about starting a family. Maybe.

“I’m here,” he says. “What are we going to do?”


	2. Witness Tampering

Jeri has the decency to wait until Foggy is indicted before she fires him.

“C’mon, Jeri, you _know_ this is bullshit!”

“No, actually, I don’t, and this firm cannot afford another scandal,” she says coldly. Foggy restrains himself from pointing out that the _last_ scandal was Jeri’s girlfriend killing Jeri’s wife to protect Jeri. Jeri sighs. “I don’t personally believe you are guilty, and I am confident that you will be acquitted. And when that happens, I will be _happy_ to reevaluate the situation.”

Unspoken: “Until then, you’re SOL.”

The TRC has already put Mattie on unpaid leave for the duration of the grand jury proceedings, and they extend it for the trial. Mattie makes a joke about giving up work for Lent, which Foggy doesn’t find funny. With their assets frozen, they have nothing to draw on, and no income. Foggy’s parents lend them some money. So, surprisingly, does Rosalind.

And Marci Stahl becomes their guardian angel, descending from the heights of HC&B to defend them _pro bono_.

“I’ll get Jessica to dig up whatever she can on this Simpson guy,” she says. “First glance is he’s a solid witness - military record, stint with the NYPD -”

“He’s lying,” Mattie says.

“I know, and you know, so let’s find out why,” Marci says.

“What precinct was he with, at the NYPD?” Foggy says.

“Uh…” Marci flips through some papers. “15th.”

“Have Jessica talk to Detective Mahoney at the 15th, he probably knew him.”

They’re interrupted by Mattie’s phone chirping one of the last names Foggy expected to hear. 

“Elektra. Elektra. Elektra.”

“Oh, uh, I should take that,” Mattie says, excusing herself up to the roof. Foggy stares after her, and doesn’t realize Marci has asked him a question until she snaps her fingers in front of his face.

“Earth to Foggy,” she sing-songs. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he lies.

He fumes through the rest of the meeting, then turns on Mattie as soon as Marci’s out the door.

“What the hell are you doing, you are _not_ blowing this off for Elektra again!” he almost shouts.

“What? No!” She holds up her hands. “I was trying to get Elektra to - I don’t know, submit an affidavit, or something…”

Foggy groans in frustration.

“They’ll never accept one, not without evidence,” he says.

“It’s worth a shot.”

“And have our entire defence be that your ex-girlfriend did it? Because that’s even worse than what we have now.”

He doesn’t say “It _was_ your fault,” but it hangs there.

“I’m trying to make this right,” she says.

“It’s a little late for that.”

He goes for a walk. Mattie is gone by the time he comes back.

He’s surprised when Jessica calls him only a few days later, saying she has something on Will Simpson, but she doesn’t want Marci there. He’s even more surprised when she shows up on their doorstep with a familiar blonde woman in tow.

“Oh, my God, you’re Trish Walker” comes out of Foggy’s mouth before he can stop himself. “I used to watch _It’s Patsy!_ all the time when I was a kid.”

“Thanks,” Trish says warmly, shaking his hand. Behind her, Jessica rolls her eyes.

“Oh, uh, this is my wife, Mattie,” he says.

“Hi. I love _Trish Talk_ ,” Mattie says, holding out her hand. Trish gives her a puzzled little look before she shakes it.

They get settled in the living room, with cups of coffee for everyone except Jessica.

“So, not that it’s not amazing to meet you,” Foggy says, “but why are you here?”

“Trish is my sister,” Jessica says impatiently. “She was involved with the Simpson stuff.”

“What Simpson stuff?” says Mattie.

“You guys defended Pam Schiarelli, right?” Jessica says. Foggy nods. “How much did she tell you about what was going on with Kilgrave?”

“A little. She said you were involved. We tried to find you - couldn’t track you down.”

“Yeah, it got a little…” Jessica looks helplessly at Trish.

“Hectic,” Trish offers.

“Yeah. Hectic.”

Neither Jessica nor Trish seem inclined to elaborate. Trish looks expectantly at Jessica, who fidgets with her fingerless gloves.

“So what does Will Simpson have to do with Kilgrave?” Mattie says, in that coaxing tone she uses when talking to reluctant witnesses.

“Simpson was mind-controlled by Kilgrave to kill Trish after Hope’s interview on _Trish Talk_ ,” Jessica says.

“Hope Schlottman?” Foggy says.

“You’re sure it was him?” Mattie says at the same time.

“Definitely him,” Trish says. “Afterwards…he came back…tried to make amends, I guess. The whole Kilgrave thing shook him pretty badly.” Jessica snorts derisively. “He tried to help us capture Kilgrave, and Kilgrave had a bomb set off to kill him. Except it didn’t. I got him to a hospital, and the only doctor he’d see was a Dr Koslov. He works for a private research firm called IGH -“

“IGH?” Mattie says.

“That mean something to you?” Jessica says.

“Yeah. IGH was the company that paid my medical bills after my accident.”

Trish and Jessica are sitting straight up on the couch, glancing at each other.

“When was this?” Trish says.

“May ’99,” Mattie says.

“Two months before mine,” Jessica says to Trish. Her eyes narrow at Mattie. “Wonder what you got out of yours.”

“Damage to the ocular nerves to the extent that I have no light perception,” Mattie snaps.

“We haven’t been able to find _anything_ on IGH, except for what’s in Jess' medical records,” Trish says. “That’s -“

“Something we can talk about later,” Mattie interrupts. “Right now, we need to know about Simpson.”

“Right. Right. OK. So, Koslov gave Simpson these…drugs. He called them Combat Enhancers. They’re stimulants, increase adrenaline. They drove him insane. He killed two men outside my apartment, he tried to kill Jess. We managed to knock him out -“ Jessica purses her lips at that. “- but I got hurt, and Jess needed to get me to the hospital. While we were gone, someone came and collected Simpson from Jess’ apartment. They got rid of the bodies at mine, too.”

Foggy glances at Mattie, whose mouth is set in a tight line.

“That was almost a year ago,” Jessica says. “We kind of thought he was dead. And now he shows up, testifying against you two.”

“You think IGH is involved?” Foggy says.

“We don’t know,” Trish says. “All we know is that whoever took him weren’t screwing around, and he’s been keeping a low profile since then. I don’t think the two are unrelated.”

Jessica looks Foggy in the eye. “So, who’d you guys piss off?” 

Some days, the answer to that seems like it’s “everyone.”

After Jessica and Trish leave, Mattie paces.

“Combat Enhancers,” she says. “And two girls with…”

“Superpowers,” Foggy finishes. He knows Mattie hates using that word. “Not sure how this connects to the Castle case,” Foggy says.

“Simpson was in the military, wasn’t he? Before the NYPD?”

“Combat Enhancers definitely sounds military.”

“Well, we know one person who was involved in the Castle case who’s ex-military.”

Foggy groans. “How are you going to find him? You got a skull-shaped Bat-signal?”

“I’ve got better than a Bat-signal. I’ve got Karen.” Mattie’s brow furrows. “Why skull-shaped?”

“It’s on his -“ Foggy waves his hands over his chest area. “He wears it on his chest.”

“Hm. Seems a little on the nose.”

“Says the woman who wears devil horns.”

She grins. “I wasn’t the one who came up with that one.”

“Yeah, yeah, blame Melvin Potter.” He tosses her her phone, and she snatches it out of the air. “Call Karen.”

Frank Castle isn’t much help, though. Mattie comes home from meeting him with nothing more than a vague recollection of a rumoured incident in Damascus. He does, however, offer to have someone look into IGH for them.

“Also, in related news, Schoonover was the Blacksmith,” she says.

“What?”

“Yep.”

“Jesus, is everyone we meet involved in some sort of conspiracy?”

Mattie cocks her head, thinking. “Pretty much.”

Foggy puts his head down on the table and moans. “So, what’s the theory now?” he says, lifting his head. “Schoonover and Simpson are connected?”

Mattie shrugs. “The Blacksmith was your pretty standard heroin drug lord. Powerful, yes, but his reach didn’t seem to extend much beyond the drug trade.” She shakes her head. “Secret military experimentation doesn’t seem like the logical next step.”

Jessica doesn’t tell Marci about her encounters with Simpson. Instead, she gives Marci a file that outlines Simpson’s abrupt departure from the NYPD and vague employment history since then.

Marci smiles when she reads it. Foggy almost feels bad for Will Simpson.

When Simpson gets on the witness stand at the trial, Foggy looks at him carefully. He doesn’t see the twitchiness that Jessica and Trish described, or the feral rage. Instead, Simpson is calm and collected, impressing the jury with his discount-bin-Captain-America good looks and service record. Simpson testifies that he was contacted by Medical Examiner Tepper before the latter’s death, and that Tepper had told him the woman who had threatened him before his testimony at the Castle trial had been in the employ of Nelson & Murdock.

Marci cross-examines Simpson thoroughly, but can’t get him to budge on his story.

“The Castle trial was several months ago,” Marci says. “Why didn’t you report your suspicions to the DA’s office before the verdict was decided?”

“I was…unfortunately unwell last year; it was why I had to leave the NYPD. As soon as I was able, I contacted the DA’s office.”

“Ah, yes, your illness. Would you care to elaborate on what exactly the medical issue was?”

“Objection, relevance?” interrupts ADA King.

“Sustained,” says the judge.

“I’m attempting to establish Mr Simpson’s state of mind, since the only evidence for the prosecution seems to be _in_ his mind,” Marci says.

“Then find another way to ask the question, counselor.”

Marci sighs. “Mr Simpson, did you suffer symptoms such as…memory lapses? Hallucinations?”

“No,” Simpson says, smirking at Marci.

“Were you on any medication that has any psychological effects?”

“No.”

Mattie drops her hand to Foggy’s and squeezes gently. _Lying._

But the judge cuts off the line of questioning, and Simpson is free to go. As he passes the defence’s table, he gives Mattie a look that sends a chill down Foggy’s spine.

Marci is nearly gleeful as they leave the courthouse.

“Karen’ll knock that guy out, and the jury’s going to _love_ her,” she crows. “This is probably the best we could hope for.”

She hurries off to prep Karen for her testimony tomorrow.

Mattie is quiet on the subway home, and barely says two words before they’re on the stairs up to their apartment.

“Elektra’s here,” she says.

Foggy tamps down the anger that comes with Elektra’s name.

“Why?” he says.

“Let’s find out,” she says grimly.

Elektra is sitting in the armchair, an exact echo of where they’d found her a few months ago.

“Matilda. Franklin,” she says.

“You’ve got a hell of a lot of nerve coming back here,” Foggy says.

“Matilda told me you were in trouble,” Elektra says, locking eyes with Foggy. “Because of me. And I wanted to…offer you some assistance.” She nods to the coffee table in front of her, and Foggy sees the stack of cash sitting there. He glances at Mattie, whose brow is furrowed.

“Elektra’s giving us money,” Foggy says.

“It’s a _lot_ of money,” Elektra supplies.

“You think that will make everything better?” Mattie snaps.

“Well, you _said_ your assets had been frozen -“

“I also told you that you’d ruined Foggy’s career!” Mattie explodes. “Do you think that you can buy your way out of that, too?”

“I made a mistake -” Elektra says, standing regally.

“A _mistake_?” Mattie shouts, and Foggy wonders if he’s about to wind up in the middle of a ninja-on-blind-ninja fight.

“I never intended this to come back to hurt you -“

“Right, because you’ve always worried so much about _consequences_ ,” Mattie says acidly.

“Matilda, I’m _sorry_.”

“I am not the one you need to apologize to,” Mattie says.

Elektra looks at Foggy, who has been staying quiet by the wall.

“I’m sorry, Franklin. For everything.”

“That’s a hell of a lot to apologize for,” Foggy says. “Starting with the day Mattie met you.”

Elektra’s mouth works around a smart response, but Foggy watches as she visibly swallows it and says, “Let me help you.”

Foggy takes a deep breath to stop himself from saying something nasty. If Elektra can be civil, he can be too.

“The best thing you can do right now is stay away from our trial,” he says. “Nobody knows you’re connected to it, and we need it to stay that way.”

Elektra nods.

“You know where to find me, Matilda,” she says. “I won’t go far.”

And she’s gone, only the pile of cash on the table showing that she was ever there.

Neither of them touch it all night. In the morning, Mattie carefully collects it and locks it in the small metal filing cabinet where they keep the remnants of Nelson & Murdock.

Karen is fantastic on the stand.

“The coverup by DA Reyes was the cornerstone of the defence strategy,” she says. “Dr Tepper was deeply involved, falsifying documents to cover up the DA’s office’s involvement.”

“Is there anyone who can corroborate that statement?” Marci says.

“DA Reyes confirmed all of it in her office the day she died. Mr Nelson and Ms Murdock were there, as was then-ADA Tower.”

“Thank you. So, what was the defence’s strategy in the Castle case?”

“When Ms Murdock was going to cross-examine Dr Tepper, she intended to pursue a line of questioning regarding the coverup and the involvement of DA Reyes.”

“But she never got the opportunity to pursue this line of questioning?”

“No. Dr Tepper said that he had been threatened by a woman in a mask before Ms Murdock could ask him anything. Judge Batzer decided to strike his entire testimony from the record.”

“And what were Mr Nelson and Ms Murdock’s reactions to that?”

Foggy feels Mattie stiffen by his side, and he drops his hand between them, brushing the backs of his fingers against the back of her hand. She curls her fingers around his.

“They were furious,” Karen says. “Dr Tepper had been the weak spot they’d identified in the prosecution’s case. Without him, they had no way to introduce the coverup into the trial.”

“Did they have any theories as to who might have threatened Dr Tepper?”

“Objection, speculation,” pipes up ADA King.

“I’m asking for Ms Page’s recollection of the defendants’ reaction,” Marci says.

“Overruled,” says the judge.

“Mr Nelson believed that DA Reyes was responsible for it,” Karen says.

“Thank you, Ms Page, no further questions,” Marci says.

King stands up, and Karen eyes her with suspicion.

“You say that Mr Nelson believed DA Reyes to be responsible for threatening Dr Tepper. Did Ms Murdock offer any opinions?” King says.

“I can’t recall if she said anything different,” Karen says.

“And immediately after Dr Tepper’s court appearance, Ms Murdock became conspicuously absent from the trial.” There’s a pause, as Karen waits for the question. “Is that correct?”

“She had to take leave for medical reasons.”

“ _Medical_ reasons? Surprising that an ambitious young attorney would walk away from the most high-profile trial of her career just for medical reasons.”

“It was a very stressful period for all of us.”

“No doubt. Up to that point, was Ms Murdock acting differently?”

“Differently how?”

“Erratically? Irresponsibly? Unpredictably?”

“No.”

“What about in July? The DA’s office has records of our meetings with Nelson & Murdock regarding your client Elliot Grote, and she is also absent from several of those.”

“She felt that Mr Nelson could handle those meetings on his own,” Karen says evenly, and Foggy can hear that tone in her voice that says she’s getting pissed off.

“In all the time you worked for Nelson & Murdock, did you ever observe any irregularities in their behavior? Anything that would make you question their…professionalism?”

Karen looks calmly at the jury.

“I’m not sure how ‘professional’ it is to be paid in pie,” she says, and the jury titters a little. “Or if it’s considered standard practice to hire your former client as your office manager. But all I observed, while I worked for a year in a very small office alongside Mr Nelson and Ms Murdock, were two people who worked _hard_ to help the people who came through our door, who treated everyone with compassion, and who held themselves to the highest standard of legal ethics.”

Foggy doesn’t know if Karen is even lying.

“No further questions,” King says.

Karen looks grim as she leaves the stand, but Marci smiles and Mattie gives her a discreet thumbs up.

Marci doesn’t call many witnesses; the trial comes down to Simpson’s testimony versus Karen’s. _And all of us know that this is a shitty case._ They wrap up the closing arguments in the afternoon, and the verdict comes in after a few hours: not guilty.

Foggy feels his body letting go of the tension it’s been carrying. Mattie smiles, and he hugs her. Marci and Karen want to celebrate, but Foggy tells them that he just wants to sleep.

Mattie leans against his shoulder on the subway, and Foggy thinks that they might make it through this, after all. He can call Hogarth and get his job back. Mattie can go back to work at the TRC. They have enough cash to get by until the IRS audit is over. They’ll figure it all out.

He puts his arm around his wife and holds her close.

Mattie’s brow furrows when they’re two floors below their apartment.

“It’s not Elektra, is it?” Foggy says.

“No. There’s no-one inside, just…” She sniffs. “Something’s not right.” She goes first up the stairs. “There’s something electrical. And I can smell…” She shakes her head. “It’s familiar.”

They reach their door, and she unlocks it, but motions Foggy to wait outside. She steps in, and Foggy sees the color drain from her face, and she’s running at him, shoving him backwards down the stairs, and they’re already falling when the air above them explodes.

There’s a moment where everything is quiet, then the world rushes back to him. The back of his head hurts, and his ears are ringing, and something sharp is digging into his elbow. He opens his eyes, and Mattie is already pulling herself up off of him. Her glasses are missing, and there’s blood on her forehead. She gently reaches around to the back of his head.

“You’re not bleeding there,” she says. Her other hand goes to his elbow, and he sees that he landed on her glasses, and the broken lens is what’s cutting him there. She pulls it out, making him hiss, and she’s pulling her scarf off and pressing it against his wound.

“People are going to be calling for help any minute,” she says. “I need to go check it out before they get here.”

“Right. Go.”

She runs up the stairs, disappearing just as Hank from 4B comes running up from below.

“Foggy! Jesus, what happened?”

“Don’t know - some sort of explosion.” Foggy slides himself into a sitting position.

“Where’s Mattie?”

“I, uh, in there.” Before Hank can go charging after her (because Hank’s a decent guy who won’t let a blind woman lie in the middle of a pile of rubble), Foggy says, “Hank, man, can you call 911?”

“Yeah, yeah!” Hank reaches into his pocket, which is empty. “Oh, shit, my phone’s downstairs.”

“It’s OK, go get it, I’ll make sure she’s OK.”

Foggy drags himself up the stairs, his head throbbing. Mattie is standing in front of the wreckage that used to be their living room. The explosion punched a hole right through it to the floor below, but they’re lucky, no-one was home.

The Daredevil mask is hanging from Mattie’s hand.

“They left it for me,” she says grimly. “They wanted me to know they found it.”

It’s not just the mask. Foggy can see pieces of the suit scattered across the floor - it must have been placed near the bomb to be destroyed. Mattie kneels, and rummages around in a pile of rubble that was probably their couch this morning. She stands, her clubs in her hands, and slides them under her jacket, tucking them into the waistband of her skirt at the small of her back.

Foggy looks around. The windows are all gone, shattered. They’re completely exposed.

“We have to get out of here.”

Mattie nods. She turns and walks back to the front door, where they keep their coats and bags. She slings one of Foggy’s messenger bags across her body, then takes a running leap across the hole, landing in the bedroom. Anything fabric is either scorched or smoldering, but Mattie ignores it as she goes to the filing cabinet. She unlocks it, and Foggy watches her pull Elektra’s cash from the drawer. Then she jumps back to him, landing lightly, and holds out her hand.

“Let’s go,” she says.

He takes her hand, and they walk away from the wreckage someone has made of their lives.


	3. Dance the Warrior

The stairs are filled with their neighbors, confused about what has happened. Mattie scoops up her cane from where it has fallen on the stairs, and they manage to slip away in the crowd before anyone stops them. Mattie leads Foggy across town to Park Avenue, stopping every few blocks, but nodding when she determines that they are not being followed.

The building she takes him to isn’t one of the new ones built post-Incident; it’s an old low-rise with a glass-and-chrome addition that was probably considered futuristic in the 2000s, before Tony Stark could put his mark on the skyline. The doorman smiles when he recognizes Mattie, but frowns when he sees the state of them.

“Good to see you again, Miss Murdock,” he says.

“Wish I could say the same, Doug,” she says with a grin that Foggy knows is forced.

Doug doesn’t ask any questions as Mattie pulls Foggy to the elevator.

“Penthouse,” she says quietly, waving her hand at the buttons. Foggy pushes the button, and the door closes.

“Where are we?” he says.

“Elektra’s building.” Foggy knows that his heartbeat must change, because she adds, “You’ll be safe here.”

_I don’t care about safe_ is almost on the tip of Foggy’s tongue, but she’d know he’s lying. 

“We need a place to stay,” Mattie says unceremoniously when Elektra opens the door. Elektra’s gaze flicks over the two of them, and she opens the door wider to let them in.

“What happened?” she says.

“Fisk had our place bombed.”

“What about the trial?”

“Oh, we got acquitted,” Foggy says. _No thanks to you._ “Not that it actually matters right now.”

“Yes. For what it’s worth, I’m glad. Something to drink?”

“Yeah.”

Elektra’s penthouse is beautiful; a glass wall on one side with a spectacular view, a sleek kitchen to the right. Elektra rummages through a cupboard, and places a bottle on the island. 

“Macallan,” she says. “I always keep a bottle around.”

Mattie smiles, that surprised smile she gets when anyone does something kind for her. “Thanks.”

“Franklin?” Elektra says, pulling out glasses.

“Macallan’s good,” he says.

Elektra pours out two glasses, and a third for herself from a different bottle. Foggy reaches for a glass of whiskey, letting go of Mattie’s hand for the first time since they left the wreckage of their apartment. He knocks back the whiskey, and Elektra refills his glass. Elektra stands back, holding her glass.

“Well, no need for us to stand around - come upstairs. Bring the bottle if you want,” she says.

Upstairs, the penthouse expands into an open-concept living and dining room, with a hallway that Foggy suspects leads to the bedroom. The decor is blandly tasteful, like a magazine shoot, nothing giving away who Elektra really is, except for the startlingly varied range of Asian weapons mounted on the wall. Foggy remembers watching Elektra put a sai through Nobu’s back, and wonders if those are the same ones.

“So Fisk tried to kill you,” Elektra says, throwing herself on a couch.

“I don’t think so,” Mattie says, pacing the room. Foggy sits opposite Elektra. “They left my mask for me to find. I think they were sending a message.”

“Which is?”

“He doesn’t want us dead,” Foggy says. “He wants to destroy us.”

Elektra nods. “So he’s attacked your finances, your careers, and now your home. He’s thorough.” She swirled the liquid in her glass. “Think they’ll turn you in?”

“It’s probably on the list,” Mattie says.

And that, the casual, matter-of-fact way Mattie and Elektra refer to it, to the possibility of Mattie being outed as Daredevil, is what sends Foggy over the edge. His hands start shaking, and Mattie is immediately turning to him, saying, “hey, hey” quietly.

“Where’s the bathroom?” Foggy says, because even if he’s panicking, he’s not going to admit that to Elektra Natchios.

“Down the hall, on the left,” Elektra says, and Foggy flees. He finds it and closes the door, collapsing to the tiled floor. A moment later, there’s a knock and Mattie’s voice.

“Foggy? Can I come in?”

His heart is racing, and he can’t breathe properly, and Mattie’s kneeling on the floor in front of him, his hands in hers.

“Hey, remember what to do, OK?” she says. “Tell me one thing you can see.”

“The sink,” he says.

“One thing you can hear.”

“Water in the pipes.”

“One thing you can smell.”

He breathes deep. “Cleaner.”

“One thing you can feel.”

He tightens his grip on her hands. “Your hands.”

“One thing you can taste.”

“Whiskey.”

They sit there, together, in silence.

“Why _her_?” he says, trying not to sound jealous.

“This place isn’t in her name,” Mattie says. “I doubt anyone even knows she’s in New York. If Fisk is trying to find us, he won’t find us here.”

He can’t argue with her logic.

“We should tell Karen we’re OK,” he says.

“Yeah. Do you want me to do that?”

He nods.

She leaves him in the bathroom, and he hears her talking to Elektra, then on the phone. After a few minutes, he splashes some water on his face before heading out to face them again.

Mattie is prowling around the edge of the room, talking on the phone, while Elektra has a sleek StarkPad out. She taps furiously at the touchscreen.

“What size are you?” she says, glancing up.

“Excuse me?” Foggy says.

“Shirt, pants, shoes? You’re going to need new clothes.”

“I’m really OK -“

“You _look_ like you survived an explosion,” Elektra says, and Foggy looks down. His sleeve is crusted with blood, and he’s covered in dust. He sighs and gives her his sizes.

“Matilda, are you still the same size you were last year?” Elektra calls as Mattie hangs up the phone.

“Uh…yeah,” Mattie says. “Don’t - don’t go too crazy, I just need some pants and a hoodie.”

“You need t-shirts and underwear and socks, and I’m not enabling your addiction to hoodies,” Elektra says. “How about something in a merino?” Mattie scowls at her. “Cashmere?”

Foggy barks a laugh, and Elektra glances at him mischievously. It feels good.

“Hoodie’s fine,” Mattie growls.

Elektra sighs theatrically and taps on her StarkPad. “Overnight shipping, it’ll be here tomorrow. I suppose you’ll want to use the shower?”

When Foggy emerges from the shower, he finds Mattie in the guest room, sitting on the bed and wrapped in a red silk robe that she’s clearly borrowed from Elektra.

“Your parents called, I told them we’re fine,” she says. “Apparently, the explosion was on the news.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Elektra’s going to order some phone chargers and a laptop for us.”

“Right.” He sits on the bed next to her. “I’m not sure I like owing Elektra this much,” he admits.

“She owes us a lot more,” Mattie says. “Besides, this is Elektra’s way of problem solving. If you can’t stab it, throw money at it.”

Foggy puts his arms around her, and pulls her back so they’re leaning against the pillows. Her wet hair smells of jasmine, the way the shampoo in the bathroom had. He realizes that he must smell of it, too, then wonders what Mattie must think, about him smelling like Elektra.

He doesn’t realize that he’s fallen asleep until Mattie is shaking his shoulder, telling him that Elektra ordered dinner. He still feels groggy and disoriented through dinner, as Mattie tells Elektra about IGH, and her suspicions that they’re connected to Fisk’s campaign against them. He goes back to bed when they finish eating, and barely registers that Mattie tells him she and Elektra are going out.

He does wake up when Mattie slides into bed next to him and curls against his side.

“You find anything?” he says.

“Not really. I’ll tell you in the morning.”

Over breakfast, he learns that Mattie and Elektra had spent the night tracking Will Simpson, but had found nothing more interesting than his home address.

Brett calls Foggy, and he and Mattie have to go to the precinct to make a statement about the bombing.

“Look, are you guys OK?” Brett says, once the formalities are over. “You need a place to stay?”

“We’re fine, thanks, man,” Foggy says.

Mattie insists on taking the long way back to Elektra’s, jumping from subway to walking to a bus before she’ll even circle near the building.

Mattie gets her phone call from Luke Cage in the afternoon. Foggy paces the penthouse, feeling trapped. After dinner, he watches Elektra and Mattie suit up in black, and slip out into the night.

_It’s not fair. I’m supposed to be the one who protects you._

It’s patriarchal bullshit, as Karen would say. It doesn’t stop him from thinking it.

Foggy distracts himself by calling Jessica, to ask about IGH and Will Simpson.

“Look, there’s not much more than what we told you,” Jessica says. “But…Trish has gone nuts over the part where your wife had her medical bills paid by IGH. She wants to know if she still has the records?”

“If she did, they…kind of got blown up yesterday,” Foggy says.

“Blown - wait, was that _you_?”

“Somebody trying to take us out, yeah.”

“Jesus, Foggy, what the hell did you do to piss someone off like that?”

Foggy sighs. “We put Wilson Fisk behind bars.”

“Fuck. Yeah, that’ll do it.”

Mattie and Elektra reappear well past midnight, buzzing with unspent energy.

“Simpson is definitely involved,” Mattie says as Elektra pours them all drinks. “There was someone in his apartment, they were talking about searching for us. We were spotted at the precinct, they know we haven’t left town.”

Foggy is suddenly thankful for Mattie’s paranoia.

“What else?” Foggy says.

“Whoever was with Simpson, they don’t work for the same people. They kept talking about an arrangement, or an agreement.”

“Did you recognize the other guy?”

Mattie shakes her head. “Simpson called him Lester.”

“That’s not the important part,” Elektra interrupts, and Foggy suddenly sees that she’s angry. “Tell him.”

“‘Lektra -“

“Whoever Simpson is working for,” Elektra says, looking at Foggy, “they want Matilda, not you. That’s the arrangement.”

Foggy looks at Mattie, whose mouth is pressed tight.

“You weren’t going to tell me,” he says.

“I…” She has that guilty look on her face, the one she’d worn when she’d told him about a world on fire.

“You weren’t!” And it all falls into place. “You were going to give yourself up for me, weren’t you?”

“Foggy -“ 

“Tell me you weren’t thinking it.”

“It’s _me_ they want -“

“That is not your decision to make!”

“What, I don’t get to make decisions about _my_ life?”

“No, because it’s _our_ life, together!”

“They’re only after you because of me!”

“That’s not true, we were both there, you’ve always been there, and don’t you dare think you can leave me here alone!”

There’s a stunned silence as Foggy wonders if he’s gone too far, if having that spill out of him was too much.

“If you won’t listen to me, listen to him,” Elektra says quietly.

Mattie storms off without a word to the guest room. Foggy meets Elektra’s eyes. She looks grim.

“I had to stop her from turning herself over right then and there,” she says. “We made a bit of a racket, had to run when they heard us.”

“Thank you,” Foggy says. _One more thing I owe you._

Elektra shrugs. “I don’t want her falling into their hands any more than you do.” And Foggy sees it, the love for Mattie that Elektra’s been carrying all these years.

By any right, it should be Elektra that Mattie loves. They always looked _right_ together, both beautiful and deadly and reckless. But Mattie made her choice, a long time ago, and she chose to let Foggy share her life.

Mattie doesn’t say anything to Foggy when she emerges from the shower, just curls against him in the darkness.

_Don’t leave me here alone._

Karen calls Mattie in the afternoon, telling her that Frank Castle has some information for her. After a quick consultation with Elektra, they decide that Elektra will monitor Will Simpson’s apartment while Mattie goes to meet Frank.

“Say hi to him for me,” Foggy says unenthusiastically. Of the three of them on his legal team, Foggy was always the one Frank liked the least.

They’re gone for hours, then Mattie is climbing the stairs.

“Elektra’s not back yet?” she says.

“Not yet. Find out anything from Frank?” Foggy says.

“IGH is apparently the usual mess of subsidiaries and shell companies, and…you know the drill.” She pulls a USB out of her pocket and puts it on the table. “All the raw data’s there.”

“Great, just like old times.”

Mattie cracks a smile. “And Frank says hi.”

“Nice of him.” Foggy pauses. “Wait, did he actually say hi?”

“Well, he sort of grunted when I said you said hi, which for Frank is pretty much sending hugs and kisses.”

Foggy manages a chuckle, and reaches out to take Mattie’s hand. He squeezes it, then picks up the USB.

“Let’s see what we can find on IGH,” he says.

But Mattie’s brows are suddenly knitting together.

“Something’s happening downstairs,” she says, her head cocked. “There’s a - commotion, I -“ She sucks in a breath. “It’s Elektra.”

And she’s running, Foggy on her heels, and the elevator is too slow, so she throws open the door to the fire exit stairs, jumping over railings and leaping through the gaps. Foggy follows as fast as he can, until he bursts through into the lobby to see Mattie on her knees in the middle of the floor, holding Elektra.

“He was waiting for us…” Elektra says in pained fragments. “I’m sorry.”

“Shh, don’t try to talk,” Mattie says, stroking Elektra’s hair. Foggy takes in the wound in Elektra’s abdomen, the trail of blood leading from the door. The doorman, the one on the night shift, is on the phone with 911. Foggy kneels next to Mattie and tries to help her put pressure on the wound.

Elektra wraps her arm around Mattie’s neck, pulling her down.

“This is not the end,” she whispers.

Foggy doesn’t have Mattie’s hearing. He doesn’t know when Elektra’s heart stops. He does know when he can’t feel her breathing any more. He knows when Mattie starts crying.

He puts his arms around Mattie, but even though there are tears running down her face, she looks frighteningly calm. Then her head whips around.

“Get down,” she says, but it’s redundant, because she’s already dragging Foggy away from the glass doors of the lobby when they shatter with gunfire. Foggy glances back to see the doorman cowering behind his desk as he runs with Mattie to the stairs. They sprint all the way up, Foggy convinced that there’s going to be a burst of gunfire behind them any second now. Mattie has him by the hand, hauling him along until they slam open the door to the penthouse, then lock it behind them.

“Grab what you need,” Mattie says, already jumping over the railing of the stairs. Foggy runs up after her, panting hard, and sees her grab the USB off the table. He rushes to the guest room, snatching up the bag of cash they still had, shoving in their phones, chargers, and new StarkPad. Mattie tosses him the USB, and he adds it to the bag.

“Let’s go,” he says.

They stop to grab coats; Mattie takes a puffy jacket of Elektra’s while Foggy puts on the new coat Elektra had bought him. Then Mattie pulls out her clubs, and listens at the door.

“Clear, come on,” she says.

She leads him back to the stairs, but goes up instead of down. Foggy follows her, and they emerge onto the roof. Mattie slots her clubs together, then twists and pulls, and Foggy sees the grappling line drawn between them.

“OK, you’re heavier, so you’re going to have to hang onto this,” she says, tossing him one of the clubs. Foggy’s hands suddenly feel very, very sweaty. Mattie draws out the line, and steps to the edge of the roof. She holds the line and swings the club in a circle, letting it fly into the darkness. “It’s secure. Come here.” Foggy very reluctantly steps up next to her. She puts her hand over his on the club, and wraps the other arm around his shoulders. He grips her waist tightly. “I’m not going to let you let go, OK?” she says.

“OK.”

“Jump.”

He jumps. They plummet, then the cable catches, and they’re swinging up and around, and Foggy’s stomach is somewhere on the street below. The momentum lands them on the sidewalk across the street and around the corner, and Mattie coolly draws in the other club on the cable as a woman gawks at them.

“Come on,” she says.

She leads him to an alley, and they wait there for a few minutes, before Mattie nods.

“He’s not coming this way,” she says. She leads Foggy out the other end of the alley, and they start walking across town, back to Hell’s Kitchen.

“Who was that?” Foggy says.

“Simpson,” Mattie says. “He must have stabbed Elektra and followed her back.”

Foggy thinks of what he knows about Elektra.

“No,” Foggy says. “She wouldn’t lead them to you. If he followed her, he wasn’t the one who killed her.”

Mattie nods tightly. “Doesn’t matter,” she says coldly.

She doesn’t say another word as they cross town. He doesn’t ask her where they’re going, until he’s looking up at a building on 46th. Mattie doesn’t seem inclined to go in.

“What’s here?” he says.

“Jessica’s office is on the fifth floor,” she says, fidgeting with her hands. “She can protect you.”

Foggy can barely hear her for the blood rushing in his ears.

“Mattie -“

She wraps her hand around the back of his head and pulls him down into a kiss, fierce and hot. Her hand fumbles with his, and she’s pushing something small into the palm of his hand.

“I can’t keep running,” she whispers. “I love you. I’m sorry.”

She steps back, out of his reach, then she’s running as he shouts her name, and she shoots the grappling line, and disappears into the darkness above the streetlights, leaving him alone.

There’s nowhere to go but inside, so he stumbles in, taking the elevator to the fifth floor. He vaguely worries how he’ll find Jessica, but there’s her door, proudly proclaiming Alias Investigations, right at the end of the hall. He somehow manages to make it there, and when he raises his hand to knock, he realizes there’s blood on it.

Elektra’s.

It’s still closed around whatever Mattie slipped him. He opens his hand to see her rings - his great-grandmother’s ring and Mattie’s wedding band.

_No._

There’s blood on the coat, the coat he put on after Elektra died. He checks, and he’s not hurt, and he’s muttering, “no, no,” when Jessica opens the door.

“Foggy, what the hell -“ Jessica’s pissed-off expression changes when she sees his face. “Get in here,” she says instead. She pulls him in and closes the door. “What the hell happened?”

“We were attacked,” Foggy says. “They killed Elektra, and Simpson followed her back, and Mattie’s hurt.”

“OK, I can go get her, where is she?”

“No, she’s gone, she went after them.”

“Foggy, your wife is _blind_.” But there’s something in Jessica’s tone, something searching. And it’s on the tip of Foggy’s tongue. He could tell Jessica, she would understand. Hell, she’s even helped Daredevil before.

But he can’t. He just shakes his head. Jessica sighs.

“She sent me to you,” he says.

Jessica frowns. “Why?”

“She said you could protect me.”

Jessica hesitates. “Is Simpson coming after you?”

Foggy shakes his head. “I don’t know. We lost him, but she went back, and…”

“Right,” Jessica says, all efficiency. “I’m taking you to Trish.”

“No, she’s coming back, she’ll look for me here.”

“Hey. Foggy.” Jessica’s voice is sharp. “She wanted me to keep you safe, and Trish’s place is better for that. I’ll have Malcolm keep an eye out for her.”

Foggy nods, and somehow feels relieved that Jessica has decided to take control of the situation.

She hustles him out, stopping halfway down the hall to talk to a sleepy-voiced guy with puffy hair who opens his door when she calls out “Malcolm!” She tells him to keep an eye out for anything moving in her apartment. Then she pushes Foggy into the elevator, and he feels limp, just a prop that keeps getting passed between these women, each of them risking their lives to keep him safe.

Elektra is already dead. Mattie -

_No._

Jessica pushes him into a cab and gives an address on the Upper West Side. She stares at him with a worried look on her face, looking away when she sees him glance at her.

Trish Walker looks perfectly composed in her robe when she opens her door, and waves them in without Jessica having to say a word. She guides Foggy to her couch and pushes a mug of coffee into his hands, and Jessica produces a bottle of something alcoholic that she pours into it.

“Jess said Simpson attacked you,” Trish says.

“He - yeah,” Foggy says, taking a drink.

“Simpson killed someone,” Jessica says, swigging from the bottle. “Foggy, who was it?”

“Elektra.” The coffee is good, the alcohol even better.

“Elektra Natchios?” Trish says. Foggy nods.

“And Mattie went back after she sent you to me,” Jessica says. She’s looking significantly at Trish.

“Why did she go back?” Trish says gently, in that soothing voice she uses when she interviews someone on _Trish Talk_. Foggy lifts his eyes to her, and can’t think of an answer. Trish’s eyes flick over to Jessica for a moment, then she crouches in front of Foggy. “I’m going to ask you a question, and you don’t have to answer, but I think it’ll be easier on everyone if you do. OK?” Foggy nods. “Is your wife Daredevil?”

He meets her gaze, open and guileless, the looks at Jessica, who is frowning into the bottle. _She can protect you._ Elektra is dead, and Jessica and Trish don’t know how much they’re risking by protecting him.

“Yeah, she is,” he says.

Trish just nods. Jessica starts to say something, but Trish cuts her off with a look.

“So she went back to…fight Simpson?” Trish says.

“I don’t know,” Foggy says. “I think so.”

There’s blood on his coat, and it’s not his or Elektra’s.

Jessica swings herself off the couch.

“OK, give me the address, I’ll pull her out,” she says.

“I can’t -“

“No, that’s a great idea,” Trish says.

“And I might get to punch Simpson,” Jessica says. “It’s my lucky day.”

Foggy gives her Elektra’s address, and he hears Trish say, “Hit him hard for me,” as Jessica leaves by jumping off the balcony.

Trish keeps vigil with him. She gives him more coffee, and sits quietly.

“I have something,” Foggy says. He rummages through his bag and finds the USB. “Friend of…it’s not important. But they gave us this - it was everything they could find on IGH.” He holds it out. “I think you should make a copy.”

“I…yes! I mean, thank you.” Trish takes the USB and runs into her bedroom to bring her laptop out. She plugs in the USB and Foggy sees her copying the files. As the computer works, she sits back. “I…do you mind if I ask?”

“About what?”

“Your wife? Is she really blind?”

Foggy almost smiles. “Yeah. She wasn’t kidding when she said she has no light perception.”

“Then how does she…”

“Fight? The accident, the one that blinded her. Whatever was in those chemicals, they enhanced her other senses.”

“IGH did that?”

Foggy shakes his head. “Until you told us about them, she always thought it was just the accident. But after hearing about Jessica…”

Trish hums agreement, and looks at the computer. It’s still copying files.

Jessica appears on the balcony, startling Foggy, but Trish shrugs as if this happens every day. Maybe it does.

“They were all gone,” Jessica says. “Big police cordon around the building, but no sign of Simpson or Mattie. Malcolm hasn’t seen anyone, either.”

Foggy feels himself crumpling in.

“She’ll be OK,” Trish says.

They decide he should get some rest, and he winds up stretched out on the couch, but sleep doesn’t come.

For the next few days, Trish insists that he stay on her couch until they hear anything. Jessica comes and goes, always shaking her head when she appears. No sign of Mattie. Foggy sorts through the files on the USB, but nothing seems to make any sense.

He’s eating dinner with Trish when his phone rings. He doesn’t even look at the caller ID, just picks up and says, “Mattie?”

“It’s me,” Karen says, and her voice is shaking. “Foggy, Frank’s here. He needs to talk to you.”

“I’ll be right over.”

Trish is already pulling on her boots.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Foggy says.

“Jess is trusting me to keep you safe, so I’m coming,” she says. “Besides, I have a car.”

As Trish drives them across to the East side, Foggy has visions of what Frank Castle might have to say. Maybe he’s been hiding Mattie this whole time. Maybe they’ve taken down IGH. Maybe… _No._

Trish takes Frank Castle’s presence with equanimity, despite the fact that he’s armored and clearly armed to the teeth. Karen is white as a sheet, though, and Foggy moves to hug her, but she waves him off and tells him to sit down.

Frank looks at Karen, who nods, one hand pressed against her mouth.

“What’s going on?” Foggy says.

Frank reaches inside his coat and pulls out Mattie’s clubs. They’re stained with blood, and clink heavily as he lays them on the coffee table. Foggy tears his eyes away from them to look at Frank.

“Who had them?” Foggy says.

“Couple of dirty cops making a run out to Ryker’s,” Frank says. “They were taking them to Fisk.”

“Why?”

Frank’s jaw works around the words. “Trophies,” he says.

Foggy can’t ask the question, can’t physically say the words. So he says instead, “They say where she is?”

Frank looks at Karen again. “They said she’s dead.”

“Do you believe them?”

Frank nods. “Word’s been going around, past couple of days, that someone took out Daredevil.” He gestures at the clubs on the table. “Heard these assholes had proof.”

“Where are they now?” Foggy says. It’s as if he’s watching this happen, he’s not actually there.

“You don’t want to know,” Frank says.

“She wouldn’t want that,” Foggy says quietly, and that’s when Karen bursts into tears. Foggy puts his arms around her, and she sobs into his shoulder. Frank stands up and paces the room, as if the sight of Karen’s tears frightens him.

“We’ll get them,” Karen says, her voice no less savage for the hitching sobs punctuating her words. “We’ll find them, we’ll make them pay.”

And Foggy can’t feel angry, can’t cry, can’t force himself to feel anything except a need to scream at Mattie.

_You promised me you’d always come back._


	4. She Used to Be Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't want to leave you all with that cliffhanger for too long! Happy Iron Fist Day, everyone!

It’s as if there’s a barrier between Foggy and the world. He’s aware of Karen offering to let him stay with her, but he can’t handle the tears in her eyes, not when he doesn’t know how to cry himself. Trish takes him home and tells him he can stay as long as he needs to. He calls Brett and reports Mattie as missing, because that’s what you do. He tells his parents the same thing.

Everyone wants him to stay with them. No-one wants him to be alone.

He tells Trish he needs to look for a new apartment, and Jessica shows up a few hours later to tell him that her upstairs neighbor has been looking for someone to take over her lease.

“There was, uh, some shit that happened with her brother last year, and she’s decided she needs a place with different energy, or some hippie bullshit,” Jessica says. Foggy doesn’t say anything. “Yeah, it’s a shitty building, you should -“

“I’ll take it,” Foggy says. Simpler this way. At least Jessica doesn’t look like she’s going to burst into tears every time she looks at him. At least Jessica barely knew Mattie.

Mattie’s phone rings on the day he’s moving into the apartment.

“Seagate. Seagate. Seagate.”

Foggy presses the button to pick up the call.

“Hey, Mattie,” comes Luke Cage’s voice. “How’re you holding up?”

“It’s…” Foggy stops. “We haven’t actually met. I’m her husband, Foggy.”

“Oh, yeah, she mentioned you. Uh, is she around?”

“She’s…” Foggy grips the phone hard. “She died. A few days ago.”

“What? Sweet - I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah.” The silence is awkward. It should be.

“Are you OK?” Luke says.

“No.”

“That’s…” Luke lets out a loud puff of air. “That’s normal.”

“I…I don’t know how to handle this, how to keep going,” Foggy admits to this stranger who was Mattie’s friend.

“I’m guessing right about now, it doesn’t feel real? Like she’s just stepped out, she’s going to walk back in any second?”

“Yeah, it feels exactly like that.”

“Look, I’m not a shrink, or anything like that, but I’ve been there. And what got me through it was having something to do, something to get out of bed for, every day. Because it’s _going_ to feel real, and when it does, it’s going to hurt so much you’re going to want to just shut everything out. And you can’t do that.”

“Thanks.”

There’s a pause. “Do you want me to call you next week?”

Foggy thinks that over. “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

“I’ll do that.”

He ignores Luke’s advice. Instead, he hides himself away in this tiny apartment as Mattie’s birthday comes and goes. She’d be twenty-eight.

Karen tries to visit, but she hovers between nearly crying and vociferously telling Foggy that they’ll make them pay, and Foggy can’t handle it. She asks if he’s planning on having a memorial service.

“Can’t,” he says. “Not until…” _Not until she’s legally dead._

“It might help,” she says.

“How can anything _help_?”

She doesn’t know what to say to that.

He keeps Mattie’s rings on the bedside table. He doesn’t know what else to do with them. He can’t bring himself to touch them, once they’re there.

He looks at the calendar and realizes that it’s the Easter weekend.

He almost sprints down the hall to the elevator, down the few blocks to the church. It’s Saturday, she always went to Easter Vigil at midnight.

_There’s no body. All they had were her clubs._

She wouldn’t miss Mass on Easter. Even at Columbia, when she didn’t go to Mass regularly, she never missed Easter Vigil.

The church is lit with the warm glow of candlelight, and Father Lantom is celebrating. Foggy slips in the back, scanning the crowd. There’s a girl at the front with dark hair - no, she turns her head, it’s not her. Foggy gives up trying to find her during the ceremony, and lets Father Lantom’s voice lull him. He frantically walks down the aisle during Communion, desperately looking at the lined-up worshippers, but none of them are her.

He stays at the back, watching the congregation file out after the service is over. She’s not here. She never was.

Father Lantom sits down in the pew in front of him.

“Something happened, didn’t it?” he says.

Foggy nods. He doesn’t say the words.

He dreams about her. Nothing detailed. He’ll just wake up, thinking he heard her say his name. By the time he opens his eyes, she’s gone.

He reads the news. Some of the websites he reads are already talking about an uptick in crime in Hell’s Kitchen. They talk about the rumour of Daredevil’s death. The comments debate whether she’s dead or not. Foggy resists the temptation to write horrible things at everyone.

Frank Castle stops by, baseball cap pulled low on his forehead. He glances around the apartment, and Foggy can feel the silent judgement at the state of it and him. Frank stands at the window with his arms crossed.

“It’s weird, huh?” he says. “You look out there, and you think, none of those people know she’s gone. They’re just going on with their lives, like nothing happened, and you’re stuck with this hole in your chest.”

“Yeah, well, I doubt our coping mechanisms are the same,” Foggy snaps.

“Good,” Frank says. “She wouldn’t want you to be like me.”

And Foggy realizes that Frank was actually worried about that.

“Foggy,” he hears, in his sleep.

_You’re gone. You left me._

He opens his eyes anyway. She’s not there.

Jessica knocks on his door.

“You’re still a lawyer, right?” she says.

“Yeah?”

“OK, got a client who needs legal advice.” She gives him a once over. “Come down in five.”

Foggy looks down at himself, sweatpants and t-shirt and bare feet, and considers that Jessica is probably right. He’d bought a decent pair of pants and a button-down shirt with some of the cash Elektra gave them, so he puts them on and wanders down to Jessica’s office.

The client had hired Jessica to find her missing daughter, who, it turns out, had run away with her boyfriend. Jessica found the daughter, who is now filing for emancipation. Foggy talks the client through her legal options, and it feels good, not thinking about Mattie.

When the client leaves, Jessica puts her hand on Foggy’s shoulder.

“I’ll pay you for the hour,” she says.

“Thanks.”

She looks at him, searching, but he doesn’t say anything, and she doesn’t ask. He likes that about her.

As he leaves her office, he sees the puffy-haired guy opening his door. He’s balancing a bag of groceries on his narrow hip, and Foggy sees a jar of tomato sauce slipping out the top. Foggy runs and catches it.

“Thanks!” the guy says, smiling. “Uh, you’re the guy who moved into Robyn’s old place upstairs, right?”

“Yeah. Foggy.” Foggy offers his hand.

“Malcolm.” He gestures to his open door. “Can I offer you a coffee, or something?”

From a certain angle, he reminds Foggy of his ex-boyfriend Rob. Foggy considers saying no. He wants to say no.

“Yeah, that sounds great,” he says.

_Liar_ , Mattie says in his head.

_Creep_ , he tells her back.

Malcolm tells him to make himself at home, and rummages through the kitchenette.

“Oh, and if you want to put on some music, the laptop’s right there,” he says over his shoulder.

Foggy looks at Malcolm’s iTunes list, and picks a playlist called Show Tunes. “You Can’t Stop the Beat” from _Hairspray_ starts playing.

“You’re a musicals kind of guy?” he says as he sees Malcolm putting on a kettle.

“Yeah, I mean, I wasn’t really until…I had a bad period, up to last year, and when I came out of it, I looked around, and I realized how much amazing stuff is right here on our doorstep, and, you know, tried to really…just wanted to get the most out of living here.”

Foggy manages to smile.

“So, you seen _Hamilton_ yet?” he says.

“Yeah! I got tickets in the lottery a couple of months ago.”

“OK, we can never be friends now.”

“Well, good, because this is _really_ bad coffee,” Malcolm says, handing him a mug of instant coffee. Foggy tastes it, and he’s not lying. “You can put it on, if you want,” Malcolm says, waving at the laptop.

“Hm?”

“ _Hamilton_. Or I’ve got the mixtape, if that’s more your speed.”

Foggy thinks of dancing with Mattie to “Helpless” at their wedding, and that hole in his chest opens up again.

“ _Hairspray_ ’s fine,” he says.

“Cool. So, Jessica said you were a lawyer.” They sit at the kitchen table.

“Yeah. Used to be.”

“Used to be?”

“Lost my job. Haven’t really looked for a new one yet.”

“That’s rough.”

“What about you?”

“Uh, I’m going to school for social work in the fall.”

“Oh, yeah? What kind?”

“It’s really depressing.”

“Isn’t everything?”

Malcolm shrugs and takes a sip. The music changes, something slower that Foggy doesn’t recognize. “I want to work with sexual assault survivors.”

“Wow,” Foggy says. “That’s…intense.”

“Yeah, well, it’s…look, I don’t know how much you know about what happened with Jessica last year?”

_She’s imperfect, but she tries_ , the music lilts at the edge of Foggy’s awareness.

“You mean the Kilgrave stuff?” Foggy says.

_She is hard on herself. She is broken, and won’t ask for help._

“Yeah, well, I was sort of involved in a lot of that, and…when she was looking for him, she found other people Kilgrave had controlled. And we all…got together, started talking. And I felt really good about that. Even though I was hurting, being able to listen to them, help them.”

_She is gone, but she used to be mine._

“And, I mean, Kilgrave’s gone,” Malcolm continues, “there aren’t going to be a lot more people he’s hurt who’re going to need help, but what we went through isn’t that far…Foggy, are you OK?”

Foggy’s staring at the laptop, wondering why his vision is blurry. He blinks, and he feels a tear fall.

Malcolm’s hand is on his shoulder.

“Do you want me to turn that off?” he says.

Foggy shakes his head.

“Sorry, I -“ he tries to say. “I should go.”

“No, man, if you just…want to sit? You don’t have to talk, if you don’t want to.” Malcolm puts a roll of paper towel on the table. But Foggy puts down his coffee.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and flees.

“Foggy.” He wakes up, her voice still in his ear.

_You’re dead. You’re not coming back._

He still opens his eyes. She’s not there.

Brett calls him, asking how he’s doing. He sounds tired, and when Foggy asks, he sighs, and says, “Never thought I’d miss Daredevil, but…”

Whenever Foggy tries to lift his head, everyone says they miss Daredevil. But burying his head becomes less and less of an option. Luke keeps telling him to find something to do, something to hold onto as the world falls out from under him. He decides that the IGH investigation will be that thing. He manages to leave the apartment to go to Trish’s place, and they sit in her living room to go over the documents Frank’s friend found.

“How are you holding up?” she asks, putting down a pot of tea on the coffee table.

“Fine. Started crying in Malcolm’s kitchen the other day, pretty sure he think’s I’m insane.”

“He’s used to crazy,” Trish says. “He’s a good person to talk to.”

“He doesn’t know - about her.” He pushes the mug of tea around on the table. “I can’t help thinking that it’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault, Foggy.”

“Yeah, well, she died trying to protect me, so…”

Trish puts down her tea, looking thoughtful.

“My mother is a monster,” she says matter-of-factly. “She’s abusive. And selfish. She pushed me into acting because she was obsessed with becoming rich. By the time I was fifteen, I was rich, I was famous, and I had a huge fan base, and I couldn’t protect myself from my own mother. Let alone anyone who showed me the slightest bit of affection. Then Jess came along. And she wouldn’t let anyone hurt me. Not even my mother.”

“I didn’t know that,” Foggy says.

“Not a lot of people do. But as we got older, I thought that I didn’t need protecting any more, and she could use her gifts to help other people. I looked at the Avengers, and I knew, Jess is like them. And I thought she could save the world, too. I pushed her to help people. And she went out, to do what I’d convinced her to do, and she disappeared for six months. I thought she was dead, and I blamed myself, because I’d been the one pushing her. And when she came back, and she pushed me away, I thought I deserved it.”

“You weren’t the one who kidnapped her.”

“You weren’t the one who killed Mattie.” Trish picks up her tea and takes a sip, hiding her face. “So let’s nail the bastard who did.”

“Foggy,” he hears, waking up.

_You’re dead. You’re just in my head._

He keeps his eyes closed.

“Foggy,” she says, and he must still be asleep, his brain mixing up dreams and reality.

“Dude, I know you’re awake,” she says, and he feels the mattress move.

He rolls over, startled, and she’s there, sitting on the edge of the bed, her head cocked. He reaches out, afraid that she’ll disappear, that his hand won’t find anything to touch. But her hand is warm when she catches it, and solid. She smiles.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she says, and he pulls her down, and she’s there, and she’s alive.

END OF PART 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Foggy starts crying to is "She Used to Be Mine" from _Waitress_.


	5. Twice Born

Part 2: Dancing With the Devil

_This is my darkest hour_  
_A long road has led me out here_  
_But I only need to turn around to face the light_  
_And decide fight or flight._  
_‘Cause I have sent for a warrior_  
_From on my knees, make me a Hercules_  
_I was meant to be a warrior, please._ \- “Hercules,” Sara Bareilles

***

Chapter 5: Twice Born

“I can’t keep running. I love you. I’m sorry.”

Mattie steps back, then runs into the street. Foggy is shouting her name as she shoots the grappling line, and she lets it carry her up to the rooftops. When she lands, the gash in her side where the bullet caught her threatens to rip further, and she stifles a groan.

Elektra’s dead, a casualty in a war she never signed up for, and if Foggy were here beside her, Mattie would say that she wants to make sure Will Simpson and whoever else is with him never hurt anyone again.

She’d be lying.

She just wants to make them pay.

There’s been enough time since Simpson shot up the lobby of Elektra’s building that Mattie is sure he’ll have already searched Elektra’s penthouse and found them gone. They didn’t leave a trail for him to follow, so most likely he’ll give up the search for tonight.

Which means that Mattie knows exactly where he’ll be.

She lands heavily on the roof of Simpson’s building, just downtown of Hell’s Kitchen. Her side is still bleeding, and the smell of blood is everywhere, but it’s more than just her wound, there’s a trail here, tiny splashes already drying.

Elektra had said she would monitor Simpson’s apartment. She’d been here, and she’d fought for her life, and lost.

Mattie barely registers the sound of the gun before she’s throwing herself to the ground, and she hears the bullet whistle through the air where her body had been. Not a bullet - to light, too slow.

“Naughty girl,” comes a voice from the next rooftop. Lester, the one working with Simpson. She rolls so that she’s behind some cover, and hears him jump the gap between the roofs. There’s a scrape of metal, then a faint tapping. Elektra’s sai.

And she can imagine it all, Elektra settling in to monitor the apartment, Lester catching her unawares. There’s blood on him, and he not moving completely smoothly, so he must have been too injured to follow Elektra, so he sent Simpson instead. Or maybe Simpson was watching, and it was all a trap to use Elektra to find Mattie.

And that thought gives her the rage to propel herself at Lester, clubs swinging. She brings one down on his elbow, but he catches it in the prongs of his sai ( _Elektra’s sai, how dare you_ ), dragging her close.

“Hey, baby,” he leers, tossing her away. She rounds on him, and he’s rolling his wrists, swinging the sai around. “Gotta say, these things are fun. I can see why your girlfriend liked them.”

_You have no right to them._

But what comes out of her is some sort of animal scream as she lunges at him. She hits anything that’s soft, not caring when he lands a kick to her side that makes a sickening crunch, or when the prong of the sai gouges into her thigh. She jumps, kicking Lester in the chest, and he stumbles back, and she tries to follow, grappling with him.

She hears the door to the roof open, and she turns the wrong way, opening herself up to attack, and Will Simpson has already fired a dart into her chest.

She’s suddenly aware that she needs to be off this rooftop now, and she tries to run, but Simpson is fast, and he grabs the back of her jacket before she can jump. She swings around, catching him with her backhand, and then she’s convulsing with electricity. A stun baton. Her broken ribs shift as she drops to the concrete, and she can’t move, her body is too heavy. Simpson kicks her clubs away from her, and toes her onto her back, and she feels her ribs grinding against each other. Simpson stands over her for a moment, then stabs down with the baton, igniting the world on fire.

She manages to get out, “That all you got?” before she passes out.

She wakes up on a ridged metal floor that’s vibrating. Her hands are locked behind her, her feet are tied together, and she nearly screams when the floor bounces and her broken rib tears at something in her abdomen.

Van. She’s in a van.

Simpson is driving. He’s the only one in here other than her.

_Must’ve gotten Lester pretty good._ There’s some satisfaction in that.

_Priorities. Figure out how to get the cuffs off. No. Figure out how to disable Simpson. No. figure out where you are._

She can barely put together a sentence in her own head. She leans her forehead back against the humming floor, and listens, peeling back sounds, layer by layer. The sounds of the van wash over her, and it’s traffic. Car radios, New York stations, they’re still in New York. Chatter, the sounds she’s used to hearing. This is her city, and she knows its shape, knows the flow of cars, people, water, electricity. They’re in Hell’s Kitchen. 

She shifts, trying to work her hands down, and Simpson has a gun pointed at her.

“Make a move, I put another dart in you,” he says, not even looking at her. She freezes. He puts the gun up.

She waits until he turns a corner, and slides with the movement of the van. It lets her move just enough to tuck her ankles up behind her.

She’s lucky. It’s not a ziptie, just rope, and she finds the knot. She picks at it with her nails, until she feels it give, and then she can shimmy her ankles together until the loops start falling away.

She can hear water. They’re near the river. She can hear the crunch of the asphalt under the tires, and she knows they’re at the piers, driving along with the river on their left.

Everything hurts, and she’s not going wherever Simpson is taking her.

He’s fast, pulling the gun on her as she moves, but she’s anticipating it now, and she wraps her leg over his arm, kicking at his face with her other foot. The gun drops to the floor and slides, skittering under the seat. She smashes him sideways with both feet, his head smacking off the window, and the van starts careening to the left. She rolls backwards, onto her shoulder, ignoring her broken ribs, and tucks her bound wrists under her feet, and then she has her hands in front of her, just as she feels the van fall off the concrete edge into the water. The van tilts to the front, and she slides down, slamming against the passenger seat, and Simpson is grabbing her with both hands. She kicks and elbows him, falling on top of him into the driver’s seat, and headbutts him for good measure. He gets one hand around her throat, forcing her off him, and she can smell the water, seeping in. She bashes her cuffed hands down on his wrist, and he swears and lets her fall back into the passenger seat. The driver’s side door won’t move as he tries to open it, there’s too much water outside. He tries to grab her, drag her to the back door, but she fights him off, kicking him against the tilting floor.

She wraps the chain of the cuffs around his throat, and he struggles. His elbow flies back, hitting her side where her ribs are broken, and she screams, releasing him enough that he throws her arms off and shoves her back towards the rising water. 

“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” he says. He backs up the tilted floor, opening the back door. Water sluices in, shocking her with the cold. “You want to drown?”

“Better than the alternative,” she spits.

He slides down the floor, which is now tilting more and more towards the vertical, and she fights him off as he tries to grab her, throwing him against the side of the van. He lunges for her throat, and she brings her arms down, breaking his elbow. He grunts, once, then seems to barely register the pain. But a broken elbow is still a broken elbow, and his left arm is mostly useless, and she uses that to twist around his grip, forcing him back up to the back of the van, then lands a solid kick that sends him tumbling out into the water. She slams the door shut, and slides her hands up to find the lock, closing it. She can hear Simpson banging on the outside, and she lets herself slide down the wet floor.

_Tools._ She needs something to get the cuffs off. Her head is spinning from the fights, but she knows that much. The water has already filled most of the front seats, but she keeps her head above the water as she opens the glove compartment. Nothing. _Dammit._

Simpson is gone. Must have given up.

She’s not going to drown, whatever she said. She tries the passenger side door, but the pressure from outside is still too much. She runs her hands over the door, but no luck - there’s no manual crank for the window. She thinks of Foggy, and braces herself against the seat, kicking at the window until it breaks from the pressure, letting the water in. She wriggles out, feeling the broken glass abrade the outside of her leg and her shoulder, and swims for the concrete riverside, navigating by feel along the wall, until her lungs are burning. She surfaces for a tiny breath and keeps going, not sure if Simpson is watching for her. Three times she surfaces before she stops and listens. Simpson is nowhere to be found.

She drags herself out of the water, feeling her body ripping itself apart from the inside.

_Get to Claire._ No, that’s not right. _Jessica. Foggy’s with Jessica._

She’s bleeding, her ribs are broken, and she can barely keep a thought together except for _Foggy. Get to Foggy._ She stumbles through alleyways, tucking her cuffed hands up under her jacket to hide them.

_Dumpster’s a good place to hide._ The Russians won’t find her. Not the Russians. They’re dead. Vladimir kissed her with a mouth tasting of blood and walked into the gunfire singing. She has to get to Foggy. She lit a ninja on fire. No, that was a long time ago, and he’s dead, too. Her head hurts from where Castle shot her, but that’s not right either.

_Get to Foggy._

Wherever she is, it smells of garbage, and it’s familiar. _It’s OK. Santino will tell Claire._ But Santino in her mind shifts and changes, and she’s thinking of Mary Sue Poots, who she called Skye.

_Nobody comes back here,_ Skye had said.

_There’s a reason for that,_ she’d said.

She falls to her knees, curling up in pain, and leans against the garbage bins. Before she passes out, she has the thought that somehow, like a wounded animal, she found her way back to familiar ground.

A door clanging open manages to disturb her enough to semi-consciousness. She stirs, and she hears a gasp and a soft sound of a plastic bag being dropped. Then there’s running feet, and a woman’s voice saying her name.

“We’ll get you to a hospital,” the woman is saying.

“No hospitals. Looking for me,” Mattie manages.

The woman is told to step back by a familiar voice.

“Matilda,” says Sister Magdalena. “What happened?”

“Don’t let him find me.”

They carry her just inside the door, and Sister Magdalena orders the other woman to cut the cuffs off her. Mattie floats in and out, until she’s being carried and laid out in the back seat of a car. Mattie doesn’t know how long they drive.

“Where…” she croaks. _Where are you taking me?_

“Somewhere safe,” the driver says, and Mattie knows her voice, but can’t for the life of her remember where she’s heard it before.

The smell of the hospital is what hits her before anything else. That specific blend of antiseptic, illness, and death. Everything feels numb and wrong, and she has trouble filtering sounds, but she _can’t stay here._ She tries to sit up, and her body screams at her, but she ignores it. There’s a line in her arm, and she carefully pulls it out, sliding the plastic cuff off her finger, and then there’s a nurse at the door, who runs at Mattie, telling her to lie back, and she slams her foot out, catching the woman in the chest, and the woman scrambles away, but she’s back in a moment with two more people, and they force Mattie back onto the bed, and she’s jabbed with something, and she’s out again.

“You bring this girl in, she nearly kills one of the nurses -“ a man is saying at the foot of her bed.

“She didn’t ‘nearly kill’ Valerie. She was probably just scared,” a woman says. The driver. Who said she was taking Mattie somewhere safe.

“What about her insurance?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Mattie tries to move her hand, and finds her wrist encased in a padded cuff. So’s the other one.

“Sister, I know charity is important to you, but -“ the man says.

“She’s family.”

Mattie remembers a crucifix hanging over her face, the only shape she could make out in the world on fire. She reaches out to touch it, but she wakes up before her fingers find it.

The driver’s fingers stroke her forehead, brushing her hair back.

“Who are you?” Mattie manages with a mouth like a desert.

“I’m Sister Maggie, I’m a volunteer here,” the woman says. “How are you feeling?”

“Thirsty.”

Sister Maggie holds a straw to her lips, and she sips.

“Where are we?” Mattie says.

“St James Hospital. In Newark.”

_New Jersey. Good._ If Simpson’s looking for her, he might not try all the way out here. Foggy might not, either.

“Foggy,” Mattie whispers, but she’s already going back under.

Mattie drifts in and out, never sure how much time has passed. 

She knows that Sister Maggie looks in on her, but she never stays for long. Never long enough for Mattie to remember to ask her to make sure Foggy is all right.

Once, Sister Maggie leans over her to adjust her pillow, and her crucifix hangs down above Mattie’s face. Mattie wants to reach out and touch it, but her hand is cuffed to the bed.

At one point (a few days?), the doctor asks her if she intends to attack the staff again.

“No. I’m sorry,” she says.

They uncuff her from the bed.

There's a phone in her room, and as soon as she’s alone, she tries to reach it. She falls to the floor, and drags herself over, and realizes that the only number she can remember is the office number for Nelson & Murdock. The nurse finds her curled up on the floor. They lift her back onto the bed and shoot her full of more drugs, and she chases a thought around her head about Alias, but can’t put the fragments together.

The doctor asks her how much pain she’s in, on a scale of one to ten.

“Three,” she says. Pain she can handle. It’s the numbness, the fuzziness, the fact she can’t put one moment after another, that she needs to be rid of.

They keep her drugged anyway.

“Happy birthday, Mattie,” Sister Maggie says quietly, her hand squeezing Mattie’s. Mattie isn’t fully conscious, but she thinks that it can’t be right, her birthday isn’t for another…week? Or two?

Sometimes, Mattie tests her limits, trying to get out of bed, trying to move on her own. At first, she can’t, and the nurses cluck at her for risking further injury when they find torn stitches or new bruises. She wishes Claire were here. There are other times when she remembers that Elektra’s dead, and it’s her fault, and she escapes into sleep because it’s all she can do. Time passes, and she’s not even sure how long she’s been here. A week, maybe. It feels like forever. She gets stronger, until she can stand up and walk.

_Time to go._

She hauls herself out of the bed, but sits on the edge, realizing that she only has a hospital gown to her name.

“I think you’ll need these,” comes Sister Maggie’s voice. She comes in and puts a pile of clothing on the bed. “I took these from the donations. I had to guess at the sizes.”

“Thank you.”

“And this should get you back to Manhattan.” Maggie presses a few folded bills into Mattie’s hand. Mattie puts her hand over Maggie’s, thinking of a night after her accident, when a crucifix had hung over her face, and a woman had told her that she’d been blessed. _Who could love me so much and stay away so long?_

Maggie pulls her hand away and tucks the hair behind Mattie’s ear. “Wait until the night shift,” she says. Then she’s gone, closing the door behind her.

Mattie slides the clothes under her pillow, and waits until she hears the shifts change. She pulls on the hoodie and leggings and the slip-on shoes and slips out of the hospital. She takes a cab into the city, and asks the driver what the date is. When he tells her, she thinks it can’t be right.

She falls asleep before they make it to Manhattan.

The cabbie wakes her up and tells her that they’re at 46th and 10th. She pays him, and waits until he drives away before she jumps for the fire escape. Her muscles ache from lack of use, but she hauls herself up, climbing to Jessica’s office on the fifth floor. But as she nears it, she hears a familiar heartbeat, one floor higher.

_Foggy._

She clambers up, and slides the window open, slipping in. He’s asleep, and she can smell that he hasn’t been taking good care of himself, but God, she’s missed him.

“Foggy,” she says softly. She can hear him wake up, but he just clutches the pillow tighter. “Foggy,” she says, a little louder. His breathing is deliberate, as if he’s trying to calm himself down. “Dude, I know you’re awake,” she says, sitting down on her side of the bed. He rolls over and his heart starts hammering in his chest. He reaches out, as if he’s afraid to touch her, so she grabs his hand and smiles. “Hey, sweetheart.”

His arms are around her, and he’s pulling her against him, babbling over and over “You’re alive” and “Oh my God.”

“Hey, hey,” she says, putting her hands on his face. “I’m OK. I’m OK.”

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Newark.”

“What -“

“I…got hurt. It was pretty bad. Passed out behind St Agnes’, and Sister Magdalena found me. She had a nun friend of hers take me to a hospital out there.”

“It’s been three weeks!”

That’s not possible. Except Sister Maggie wished her a happy birthday. Except the cabbie told her a date in the future. “I didn’t - I was out for a while. I lost a lot of time,” she admits.

He puts his hand on her face, like he’s still not convinced she’s real.

“They said you were dead,” he says.

“Who said that?”

“Frank. He killed some of Fisk’s men, who had your clubs. He said they’d been spreading the word around that they’d killed you.”

It’s too much, she can’t wrap her head around it, not right now.

“I’m so sorry,” she says.

He has his fingers in her hair.

“Should’ve known you’d be too stubborn to die,” he says fondly.

She smiles and leans in. The touch of his lips feels perfect, feels _right_.

He pulls away, and she hears a faint scraping noise.

“I think you should have these back,” he says.

He takes her left hand and slides her wedding ring onto it, followed by her engagement ring. She rubs her thumb against them, feeling the weight she’s been missing. He closes his hand around hers.

“Did you think you weren’t coming back?” he asks quietly. “Is that why?”

She shakes her head. “I just wanted to be able to punch with both hands,” she says.

It hangs there for a moment, then Foggy laughs once, sharp and dry, and lunges forward to kiss her.

“You’re such an idiot,” he says, holding her face between his hands.

“I know.”

He’s kissing her like he wants to devour her, slipping his hands under her hoodie. He rolls her onto her back, and she winces when she takes some of his weight on her ribs. He recoils.

“You’re hurt,” he says.

“I’m _healing_ ,” she says, pulling him down again.

This time, he gets her hoodie off before he sits back, running his hand over the line where she’d been grazed by the bullet.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers.

“I’m not made of glass.” She reaches up to his face, and finds him smiling.

“No. Not glass.”

He kisses her, then gently trails down her chest, teasing her nipples softly. She pulls off his t-shirt, wanting to feel his skin against hers, and he holds her for a moment, his lips against her neck, just feeling the comfort of being together after too long apart. She slides her hands down, pushing his boxers down, and he chuckles a little as he pushes them off. He kisses her belly as he pulls her leggings off, then he’s on top of her again, his mouth on hers, his hand fumbling over to the bedside table.

“Oh, shit,” he says.

“What?”

“I don’t have any condoms.”

“Why not?” is the first thing out of her mouth before she realizes exactly why.

“…you were dead?” he says in that tone that says he knows exactly how absurd this conversation is.

“Death cannot stop true love,” she says, miraculously keeping a straight face. “All it can do is delay it for a while.”

They burst out laughing, and he’s kissing her again.

“Not fair, you are not allowed to use the sacred words of _The Princess Bride_ against me,” he laughs into her mouth.

“As you wish.”

“I hate you.”

“Liar.”

“Creep.”

She manages to slide her hand between their bodies, and stroke him, and he shudders a little.

“Want you,” she whispers.

“You’re sure?”

She nods, brushing her lips against his cheek. He shifts his weight, and lets her guide him inside her. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been longing for this for three weeks, how desperately she’d needed him, but he’s here, his heart beating against her chest and inside her, her whole world wrapped in one person. His breathing gets shaky as he moves inside her, and she can smell tears, and she catches one on her finger as it drops down his cheek.

“I thought we’d never get the chance again,” he whispers.

She pulls him down for a kiss. “I’ll always come back.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He thrusts harder, taking her breath away, until the bed is creaking under them, and she can’t contain the noises he’s pulling out of her, and she shouts out when she comes, feeling free in a way she hasn’t since Wilson Fisk put them in his sights.

She tucks her head against Foggy’s chest, and chuckles.

“What?” he says.

“Jessica’s pissed.”

“You can hear that?”

“More like she heard us.”

She’s interrupted by an angry knock at the door, and Jessica calling Foggy’s name. Foggy groans and hauls himself out of bed. He roots around, looking for his boxers as Jessica starts shouting louder. He finally finds them (tangled at the bottom of the bed), and pulls them on and opens the door.

“Foggy, I don’t give a fuck how you’re working through all your shit, but it’s one in the fucking morning -“

“It’s really not what it looks like -“

“You can pound whoever’s in there into the mattress, just do it quietly -“

“Hi, Jessica,” Mattie says, stepping out of the bedroom wrapped in the (ugh, cotton) bedsheet.

There’s a pause.

“Foggy, your dead wife is behind you,” Jessica says.

“I noticed,” he says dryly.

“Not dead,” Mattie says, raising her hand.

“Yeah, obviously,” Jessica says. She shakes her head and lets out a breath that smells of bourbon. “Guessing there’s a story to all this?”

“Yes, and we’ll be happy to tell it to you. In the morning,” Foggy says.

“Yeah. Morning. Just - keep it down,” Jessica says, beating a retreat. “Glad you’re OK,” she finishes, not-insincerely.

Foggy closes the door. “I miss concrete walls,” he says.

“You were the one who chose this place,” Mattie says, heading back to the bedroom. “Why did you choose this place?”

“Needed a new place,” Foggy says as they climb back into bed. “The girl who had this place before needed someone to take over her lease. Seemed like a good idea at the time.” He holds his arm out, and she curls against his side, everything perfectly familiar. He tugs at the end of the sheet still wrapped around her, and she lets him cover them.

She smells the mold in the walls, listens to the leaky plumbing, the fraying electrics.

“I like it,” she says.

“You do?”

“Reminds me of our place in Harlem.” She burrows closer. “And I like the idea of you having a friend downstairs.” Now that her adrenaline is spent, she’s slipping into sleep.

When she’s in the twilight before sleep, she hears him whisper, “Promise me you’ll be here when I wake up.”

“Promise,” she murmurs.


	6. Land of the Living

Mattie’s internal clock is shot all to hell, so she’s not sure what time it is when she wakes up. She’s aware of warm sunlight on her bare back, scratchy cotton sheets, and Foggy’s fingertips lightly brushing over her hair. Like she’s something fragile. No. Like she’s something precious.

She smiles sleepily, and stretches her back. _Ugh. Cotton sheets._ She needs to start a list of things she needs to buy to get back to the land of the living.

Foggy’s hand moves slowly, tracing the side of her face.

“Morning, kitten,” he whispers.

“Morning,” she mumbles. He shifts, pulling his arm out from under her, so that they’re lying facing each other. His hand glides down her neck, over her shoulder, along her collarbone.

She holds her breath, not wanting to break the spell, as his hand gently travels over her body, first her breast, then her waist to her hip, then coming to a rest on her ass. He brushes his lips over hers.

“Is Jessica awake?” he whispers. She listens, and hears a gentle snoring from below.

“No.” She smiles. “Go brush your teeth.”

After they’ve had a tender, morning-breath-free time in bed, she pulls on one of his shirts while he showers, and stands in the middle of the kitchen with no idea how to find the coffee. She opens a few cupboards, which are pitifully empty, but there are no telltale bags of coffee beans to be found. She can smell stale instant coffee, but she assumes that’s from the previous tenant. Foggy turns off the water.

“Foggy, do you have coffee?” she calls.

“Yeah, it’s in the - just a second, I’ll show you.” He emerges with a towel wrapped around his waist. “It’s instant, so you just need to boil water…” he says, pulling a package out of the cupboard and holding it out to her. “What?”

“Instant?” she says, in the same tone she uses for “ninjas” or “civil rights violation.”

“It’s from Starbucks?”

She takes the package out of his hand. “I’m dead for three weeks, and you’re drinking _instant_ …”

“It was kind of a bad time,” he says quietly, and her heart sinks.

“I’m sorry,” she says, leaning up to kiss him. “Too soon?”

“It’s probably going to be too soon when we’re ninety.”

She nods and kisses him again. “Why don’t you tell me how to brew this…stuff?” she says, holding the package up. He tells her the proportions, and she spoons them into the only two mugs in the kitchen and puts the kettle on before she heads to the shower.

“And if I find any Doritos, I’m throwing them out,” she tosses over her shoulder.

They bring the mugs of instant coffee (too bitter, needs a lot of milk and sugar to make it remotely drinkable) downstairs to Jessica’s. The lady of the house opens the door with a grunt and throws herself behind her desk. There’s a collection of mostly-empty bottles on it.

“So you’re not dead,” Jessica says.

“Nope,” Mattie says.

“So what happened?”

Mattie gives Jessica a shortened version of the events of the night Elektra died. Jessica swigs from one of the bottles.

“Simpson wanted you alive,” Jessica says.

“Whoever he’s working for did.”

“And now he thinks you’re dead.”

“He must - I mean, he must have assumed I drowned in the van.”

“Doesn’t sound like him.” Jessica leans back in her chair with one foot on the desk. “He made an assumption like that before, and it came back to bite him in the ass. Simpson’s a lot of things, but he’s not an idiot. And if he told his superiors you’re dead without being sure…”

“It gets even worse for him,” Foggy says.

“So why’d they spread it around?” Mattie says. “Why put it out when just me showing up would disprove it?”

Jessica takes a swig. “What’s the first thing someone’s going to do when they see you?”

“Probably take a photo,” Foggy says. “Post it online.”

“Yeah. ‘Oh my God, Daredevil’s alive.’ Which means -“

“They’re trying to flush me out,” Mattie says.

“And they’ve turned everyone with a phone in Hell’s Kitchen into a snitch for them,” Jessica finishes.

“Well, good news is the suit got blown up with the rest of our stuff,” Foggy says sarcastically. “No pics of Daredevil for a little while.”

“Yeah, I should go talk to Melvin,” Mattie says. “But what we really need is to figure out who Simpson’s working for, and what they want.”

“Well, IGH is our lead there,” Jessica says, taking one more swig.

“Trish copied the files Frank gave you, she’s been going through them,” Foggy continues.

“Great, let’s go talk to her,” Mattie says.

“Yeah, we need to get you some new clothes first.”

“I’m fine, we can do that after.”

“Your leggings are _floral_ ,” Jessica says. She’s not lying.

Mattie takes a deep breath.

“Shopping it is,” she says.

Foggy still has a good portion of the cash Elektra gave them, and they try to be frugal, but the list of things they need keeps growing. Foggy texts Karen to meet them, unwilling to say anything over the phone or put anything explicit into a text, and she meets them while Mattie is trying on sneakers, and almost bursts into tears in the shoe store. Foggy gives her the shortened version of the story while Mattie tries on jeans, and by the time he’s worked his way to IGH and Will Simpson, Karen has that tone in her voice that says she’s _pissed_ and going to fight to the end of the world.

She goes with them to Trish Walker’s apartment, where Jessica is waiting for them, and Trish has already put out a big spread of Japanese food for lunch. Mattie and Foggy are spared having to tell the story a third time in six hours, and Trish launches into her own discoveries.

“So, you know how I thought the payroll document was a dead end?” she says.

“Yeah,” Foggy says. “Oh, uh, Trish was trying to see if Simpson was on IGH’s payroll, but couldn’t find him in the document we had.”

“Couldn’t find _William_ Simpson,” Trish says. “But there was a _Frank_ Simpson, which I always thought was a little weird. So I tried cross-referencing with some of the files on the military research projects, and Frank Simpson turns up in those as a test subject, about…five or six years ago.”

“Which is consistent with what you know about Will Simpson,” Foggy says.

“Exactly. So I buttered up some administrators at Veterans’ Affairs, told them I was researching a story, and they pulled some strings and I got a look at the service record for one Francis William Simpson.” She pauses, presumably to smile. “It’s him.”

“Nice!” Foggy offers her a high five across the table. “Anything juicy?”

“Mostly redacted,” Trish says apologetically.

“But it’s him?” Mattie says. “We have a solid connection between Simpson and IGH?”

“Definitely,” Trish says.

“Congratulations, the creepy medical research people are the ones trying to kidnap you,” Jessica says. She holds something up with her chopsticks. “Trish, what _is_ this?”

“Seaweed salad.”

Jessica puts down the offending seaweed.

“So, sorry, just need to catch up,” Karen says, “but how is IGH connected?”

Trish summarizes IGH’s connections to everyone at the table.

“So, most of the files that your friend got are about the contracts IGH got from the military,” she continues. “As far as I can tell, they’ve been, in one form or another, involved with the military since the 1950s.”

“SHIELD?” Mattie says, thinking of HYDRA.

“Not as far as I can tell. IGH seems strictly American.”

“Damn,” Foggy says. “If they were involved with SHIELD, we might get away with calling the Avengers.”

Jessica snorts derisively.

“Did you find anything about us?” Mattie says.

Trish shakes her head. “Not yet. There are a whole lot of references to civilian research projects, they seemed to be working in tandem with the military contracts, but…none of this is complete. And whoever you had get the files, it seems like they thought the military stuff was more important.”

_Yeah, that sounds like Frank Castle._

“So…why do they want Mattie?” Karen says.

Trish shifts in her seat and pokes some sushi around on her plate. “I don’t know for sure.”

“Trish,” Mattie says, “all of the military contracts, what were they researching?”

“Most of the project summaries talked about physically enhancing military personnel. Increased strength and stamina, immunity to pain, that sort of thing.”

“And this goes back to the 50s?”

“Shit,” Jessica says.

“What?” Foggy says.

“It’s Project Rebirth,” Mattie says. “They’re trying to create supersoldiers.”

There’s a general nodding around the table.

“What does that have to do with you?” Karen says.

“IGH might’ve fucked with Mattie when she was a kid,” Jessica says. “And now they want to see how their little lab rat turned out.”

Mattie almost physically winces, and she feels Foggy’s hand on her thigh. He’s the only one who knows how close she is to panicking at the thought of what might have been done to her.

“I did find one reference to experiments on minors,” Trish says brightly, breaking the mood as much as she can. “But it’s from the 80s, so I don’t think it’s about you. Unless you also got eternal youth as part of your powers.”

Mattie is about to make a smart remark, but she realizes that Jessica’s entire body has shifted, radiating tense wariness.

“Trish,” she says quietly, “were any of their projects in the UK?”

“They had projects all over, but all of their research was contracted -“

“Were there any in the UK?” Jessica says, louder, enunciating every word, her voice almost shaking.

Trish sucks in a breath. “I-I-I don’t know.”

“Dammit.” Jessica slams her chopsticks down on the table, snapping them in half. She’s already pulling on her jacket before Trish can even get up from her seat.

“Jess, I didn’t think -“

“Yeah, well, I did. And I think I know where I can get the evidence.”

“Simpson torched the place, there was nothing left -“

“Not necessarily.” Jessica pauses at the door. “I’ll see you at home,” she says, almost peevishly, before she’s gone.

“What -“ Karen starts, but Trish waves her hand.

“It’s, uh, Jess will let us know if it’s important,” she says, her voice all false brightness. Her heart is hammering in her chest.

Karen and Trish spend the rest of lunch trying to figure out angles they can use to expose IGH. 

“No offence, Mattie, but ‘crazy ex-cop kidnaps blind lawyer’ doesn’t really count as clickbait,” Trish says.

Karen laughs. “We’ll just put it next to a story about Spider-man, those get all the hits these days.”

Mattie wonders if Ben Urich knows what’s coming for him once Karen gets out to his office.

But even though Trish and Karen are getting along like a journalistic house on fire, Mattie leaves Trish’s apartment feeling unsatisfied.

“What is it?” Foggy says as they walk home.

“Even if we blow IGH open, it still doesn’t prove Fisk’s involvement,” she says.

“You’re still sure about that?”

She presses herself tighter against his side.

“Lester was working for someone, and they were the ones calling the shots, not IGH, otherwise Simpson would have just kidnapped me and called it a day. And there’s only one person with the tools and the motive to do that.”

“Well, the Hand might.”

“Not really their MO.”

“So how do we prove it?”

He pulls her across the street, and she grins as he gives the New York salute to a taxi that nearly hits them.

“Give the people what they want,” she says, once they’re on the sidewalk.

She waits until the sun goes down before she ventures out over the roofs. When it does, Foggy pulls out her clubs and holds them out to her. She can smell blood on them, dried and old now. She takes them with a smile, tucking them into the waistband of her jeans.

She’ll never tell Foggy, but her muscles ache in unfamiliar ways as she leaps and tucks and rolls. Three weeks. She didn’t think it was that long, but _three weeks_. She needs to start training again, and hard.

She lands behind Melvin Potter’s workshop, and slides in the back door, the way she always does. She can hear him puttering around, smell heated metal. He’s welding something. She slips into a corner, and waits until he’s done before she makes a sound. He drops the welding torch with a clang and pushes his goggles up on his forehead.

“It’s you,” he says.

She steps into the warmth of the light, and smiles, knowing it’s all he can see of her face under her hood.

“Hi, Melvin,” she says.

“They said you were dead.” She can hear a quaver in his voice, and she’s suddenly touched, that Melvin Potter was sorry she was gone.

“They tried.”

He strips off the gloves he was wearing, and then he’s _hugging_ her, a big bear hug, and he’s laughing.

“Shoulda known. I _shoulda_ known.” He holds her at arm’s length, and hums suspiciously. “What happened to the suit?”

She has to smile at that - Melvin is a professional, if nothing else. “Got blown up.”

He nods, letting her go. “I don’t have much red left, but I can order some -“

“Just get me up to fighting shape,” she says.

“I’ve got a lot of black left over, same as your friend got. How is she?”

She swallows. “She’s dead. They killed her to get to me.” And there’s that weight, the one she’d tried to ignore all day.

Melvin’s hand lands on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. She…she was really nice.”

_Nice_ is probably the last word anyone except Melvin Potter would use to describe Elektra. “Yeah. She was.”

“You’re going after them?”

“Yeah.”

Melvin looks around. “Not tonight?”

“If you can give me something to wear in the short-term, that would be great.”

He crosses his arms and cocks his head, then grabs a tape off a shelf and starts manhandling her.

“I’ve still got some stuff I made for Betsy - she said it was too…well, she’s got her own stuff now, and you’re only a little smaller than she is…” He goes to a bank of cupboards and starts pulling out pieces of clothing that sound like leather and cloth. “Here, try this on.”

Mattie steps into the little bedroom off the workshop to change, and steps out in the slightly-too-large pieces. She remembers how Fisk’s suits sounded, all light flexibility, but these have a little more structure to them, designed to hug curves she doesn’t have. Melvin fusses over her, tugging at the seams, marking them with chalk, then telling her to change out of it. When she hands the pieces back, he goes to his sewing machine and immediately starts working. She hovers, sliding her hands over items in the workshop. A pair of metal extending pants, which she thinks are entirely impractical. On his workbench, a pair of circular saws, which she can tell he was attaching to a pair of gauntlets. Melvin doesn’t tell her she can’t touch anything, and she appreciates his trust.

“OK, try it now,” he says.

It fits like a glove, leather encasing her chest and abdomen and legs, leaving her arms bare. She stretches experimentally, and it moves with her. He gives her a pair of boxing wraps, and a pair of boots in her size, and she wonders how many spares he’s made.

“I’ll need a mask,” she says.

“I don’t -“

“Just a piece of cloth. Black, about this big?” She holds her hands up to show him. He cuts her a piece and she ties it over her eyes. “How do I look?”

“Like the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen,” he says.

She smiles. “How long until I can get a real suit?”

“The red’s going to take a couple of weeks. If you’re OK with black, I’ve got most of the stuff here.”

“Black’s fine.”

He cocks his head, looking at her. “I can do you a logo, you know, maybe a double-D on the chest? I’ve got a couple of designs…”

“That would kinda be false advertising,” she says.

“What?” Melvin’s voice is guileless, and she wonders how much he knows about bra sizing.

“I’m OK on the logo.”

“Huh. Well, you’ve got the boots, I’ve got a bit of red left over, I can do highlights…” Melvin moves to his workbench, picking up the pencil and drawing in long lines. “Couple of days? Week, maybe?”

“I’ll be back then,” she says.

“It’ll be ready for you.”

She steps in, and the leather is very… _intimate_ on her skin. She can hear Melvin’s breath catch, smell the beginnings of arousal. She puts her arms around him, mirroring the bear hug he gave her earlier, and squeezes him with her cheek against his chest.

“Thank you.”

She collects her civilian clothes from the bedroom where she changed.

“The people, the ones who’re after you,” he says as she emerges. “They the ones tearing up Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Maybe.”

He nods. “Glad you’re back.”

“Me too.”

She runs over the roof tops, depositing her civilian clothes on her own building, before she pauses and listens, then takes off in the direction of the first scream she hears. Mugging, easily taken care of. Then another. The second victim pulls out his phone, and Mattie turns as she hears the click of the camera. She hopes he got a good shot. Then she hears a prostitute being beaten by her pimp. The pimp gets some…Biblical justice. Her heart is pounding by the time she makes her way back to 46th, and she scoops up her clothes from the roof where she left them. She’s just about to climb in her window when she hears it. A British-accented voice, recorded.

“You don’t see Eric crying when he goes in the sin bin.” An abrupt stop. A pause.

A woman’s voice, with the same accent. “Be a big boy for Mummy and Daddy.”

The man’s voice again. “You don’t see Eric crying when he goes in the sin bin.”

Mattie slides down the fire escape and knocks on Jessica’s window.

“Jesus!” Jessica nearly shouts. She slides the window open. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“You were up,” Mattie says. “Wondering if you had anything.”

Jessica groans and sits back down. The smell of bourbon is rolling off her; she must have started drinking a long time ago. Mattie takes it as an invitation, and slides into Jessica’s apartment.

“Shit, I thought the red suit was kinky,” Jessica says.

“Too much?” Mattie says, grinning as she pulls the mask off.

“You’re in head to toe leather, so unless you’re cosplaying as Catwoman, yeah, it’s too much.” Mattie cocks her head, and Jessica pauses. “Your tits look amazing, though.”

“Thanks. It’s temporary. What’ve you got?”

Jessica makes a sound that’s some sort of combination of frustration, triumph, and pain. “It’s…” She trails off, and takes another swig.

“Is it about IGH?”

“I don’t know.” Jessica points at her laptop with the bottle. “What I do know is that I’ve got a shitload of videos about kids being experimented on. If that floats your boat.”

“Is this what Trish was talking about? Experimentation on minors?”

“Yeah. There’s more, too.”

“Us?”

Jessica shakes her head, a slightly liquid motion that she doesn’t seem in complete control of. “Can’t find you or me on them. But there’s a whole shit-ton of prison gladiator fights and experiments.”

“Prison?” Mattie says. “Seagate?”

“Yup.”

“Carl Lucas?”

“Who?” Jessica steadies herself on the desk as she sinks to her chair. She rips the USB out of the laptop.

“Careful!” Mattie says.

“Don’t worry, it’s been through worse,” Jessica says. She holds it out to Mattie. “Reva Connors died for this.”

That name rings a bell. “Luke Cage’s wife?”

“Yeah.” Jessica tries to take a swig, but finds the bottle empty. She cracks open a new bottle, waiting on the floor. “You’re his lawyer, right?”

“I was,” Mattie says. “Now, I think we’re just friends.”

Jessica laughs drunkenly and drops the USB on the desk. “He _loves_ the ladies. And they _love_ him.”

“I never _slept_ with him.”

“Never thought you did. Trust me, I’ve seen the way you are with Foggy.” Jessica takes a long drink. “I’d have kicked your ass if I thought you’d stepped out on him.”

“That’s comforting,” Mattie says mildly. “How do you know Luke?”

Jessica gives a sardonic chuckle. “I…killed Reva.”

There are so many questions that Jessica’s statement raises, but all Mattie can say is, “Why?”

“Because Kilgrave told me to.” Jessica drinks again. “He wanted this.” She waves the USB around. “And when he got it, he told me to kill her. And I did. And she died. And then a bus hit Kilgrave, and I got away for the first time in _six months_.” She slams her fist down on the desk, and Mattie can hear the wood cracking under the force. “And Luke will never forgive me for that.”

Mattie thinks of Luke, always gentle, always compassionate.

“Maybe you should let him decide that,” she says.

“He’s already decided,” Jessica says. “I’m a piece of shit. You and Foggy? Stick with Trish. She’s a good person. I’ll just infect the whole bunch of you.”

Mattie steps in. “I know what that feels like,” she says. “Thinking you’ll poison every person you touch. Thinking everyone around you is better than you.” She reaches out, fully aware that if Jessica loses control, she could wind up with broken bones, or a broken spine, or dead. “They are,” she says.

“No shit,” Jessica says.

“They’re better than us. And that’s why we need to keep them safe.” _Foggy killed a man to protect me._ “Help me.”

“Thought that’s what I’m doing.” She scoops up the USB and holds it out to Mattie. “Hope you find something.”

Mattie takes it. “We’ll make copies.” She’s halfway out the window before she stops herself. “Where’d you get this?”

“Hogarth had it,” Jessica says, her voice dripping with disdain.

Mattie nods. “If you ever need…backup, just let me know.”

She slips out on to the fire escape, and collects her clothes where she dropped them. She climbs up to the next floor and slides their window open, climbing through to where Foggy is sitting in the kitchen, a mug of awful instant coffee wrapped in his hands. He smells of sour sweat, like the aftermath of fear, and she suddenly thinks of finding him in their apartment smelling of whiskey and gunpowder and confessing he’d killed a man.

“Foggy, what’s wrong?” she says. He shakes his head, and she kneels next to him, putting her hand on his leg. “Sweetheart, you can tell me.”

“You were gone,” he whispers shakily. “You were gone for so long.”

“I know, but I’m back now,” she tries to say soothingly.

“No, Mattie, you don’t know!” he shouts. “You don’t know how I’ve spent every night since you started worrying that you might not come home, and then…you left me standing there with your rings and blood on my coat, and I thought you were dead, and now you’re back, and you go out without a second thought, and now I know what it feels like to lose you, and I can’t, I can’t lose you again…” He’s crying now, and she wraps her arms around him, letting him cling to her.

“I’m sorry,” is all she can say.

They sit there for a while, before Foggy pulls away and tells her he’s fine now. He’s lying. She doesn’t say anything, just goes to take a shower to give him space.

When she emerges from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees. She sits next to him and takes his hand.

“I’m not asking you to stop,” he says. “Think we’re well past that now. I just know I’m always going to be scared.”

She nods and tugs on his hand, turning him to face her. She puts her hand over his heart.

“Do you remember the night I fought the Hand?” she says.

“Kind of hard to forget.”

“When I got Nobu down off the roof, I thought I was going to die. He was better than me, so much better. But you were there, and I couldn’t let you watch that happen. And I listened for this.” She presses her hand against his chest. “And I held onto that. And that kept me alive long enough for Elektra to get down to help me.” She leans in, not quite resting her head on his shoulder. “You said I was too stubborn to die, but it’s you. You’re what keeps me alive.”

His hand clasps the back of her head, and they sit there, heads tilted in towards each other, his heart beating under her hand.

_They’re better than us_ , she’d told Jessica. And maybe Foggy and Trish, even people like Karen and Claire and Ben and Brett, would be better off without them. But Foggy is holding her, and telling her he can’t lose her, and, for once, she believes him.


	7. In the Pale Moonlight

It only takes a few hours for Daredevil’s return to go viral. The mugging victim’s photo was posted on Twitter, then spread around on Facebook, then picked up by some pro-vigilante websites, then finally by the news sites.

“Wow, you really got the boobs and butt pose down,” Foggy says.

“The what and what?”

“Boobs and butt? You know, they always have women posed like that on movie posters, like, twisted around so you can see both their…you have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Last time I saw a movie poster, I was nine. I think it might have been _Star Wars_.”

Foggy laughs. “Yeah, well, anyway, it’s a great photo of you. You look…” He pauses, searching for words, and she arches her eyebrows. “You look hot, OK?”

“Well, I feel objectified now.”

“What is marriage if not the opportunity to objectify one another? As equals?”

She flips him the bird. “Let’s just hope Simpson and Lester take the bait.”

They’re lying in bed, even though it’s past noon, because it’s more comfortable than sitting at the kitchen table. At least, that’s the rationalization they’ve said out loud. Mattie’s leaning her head on Foggy’s shoulder as he holds the StarkPad; they’ve been going through the video files on the USB Jessica gave them. Foggy’s decided to take a break because there are only so many videos of children being tortured that one can watch without wanting to burn humanity to the ground. And that’s after a morning of watching videos from a prison gladiator fight ring. Mattie had him send copies of anything from Seagate to Luke’s lawyer in Savannah.

They still haven’t found anything about Matilda Murdock or Jessica Jones in the files by the time Mattie heads out to Fogwell’s.

“What about hospital records?” Foggy says, pacing around the gym as Mattie works on the speed bag.

“Maybe, but I doubt they’ll have anything we don’t already know.”

“Legal records? Did your dad sue the company that owned the truck in the accident? Or the one that manufactured the chemicals?”

“Don’t think so - I think I’d remember something like that.” She stops. “What about police reports?”

Foggy nods. “Yours was in Hell’s Kitchen, right?”

She grins. “Where else would it be?”

“I’ll see if Brett can dig up the records, and I’ll get Jessica to look up hers.”

She nods and turns to go back to the speed bag when the idea hits her. 

“Actually, it’s been staring us in the face this whole time,” she says.

“What?”

“What was the first thing you said to me? When we first met?”

“That you were really good-looking?”

“Before that.”

He lets out a puff of air. “‘Hi, my name’s Foggy, I live next door, please have sex with me?’”

“Don’t remember that last part.”

“It was implied.”

She grins. “You knew who I was.”

“Yeah, because I’d heard…about the accident…”

“Where?”

“In the news.” He’s already fumbling for his phone. “You’re brilliant. I’ll see if Ben can help us out.”

When she’s done training, she suits up and heads out, making sure Hell’s Kitchen knows that Daredevil is back, and she’s _pissed_.

During the day, she takes Jessica to Will Simpson’s apartment, but it’s been wiped so clean, Mattie can smell the lingering residue of bleach.

At least one person gets the message that Daredevil’s back. Frank Castle is waiting for her on the roof of her building when the sun goes down three days later.

“Not dead,” he says by way of greeting.

“Not dead,” she agrees.

He grunts. For Frank Castle, that’s practically a ticker-tape parade. 

“Thank you,” she says, “for checking in on Foggy.”

“Know where he’s been,” Frank says, and Mattie remembers a night in a graveyard, and thinking that Frank hadn’t been so different from her and Foggy, once upon a time. “What you got? Hold onto it, Red.”

“I know, Frank.”

“Who was it?” He waves a hand. “They still after you?”

“Will Simpson and an asshole named Lester.”

“Fisk?”

“Probably. Still working on finding the connection.”

“I’ll see what I can dig up.” He turns to go.

“Then I’m going with you,” she says.

“Jesus, Red -“

“My life, my rules.” She hears him still, and knows he knows what she’s referring to. “We clear?”

“Yeah.” He gives a harsh little chuckle. “Just don’t expect me to start calling you Black if you’re planning on keeping that suit.”

“Call me whatever you want, Frank,” she says, “I can still kick your ass.”

“Yeah, sure. Come on, choirgirl,” he calls as he jumps to the next roof.

_That’s a new one._ She follows him.

Information is the key to this whole endeavor, so she and Frank go to the one person who has his finger on the pulse of Hell’s Kitchen: Turk Barrett. They find him speaking fluent Mandarin to a pair of…fighters. They remind Mattie of Jacques and the rest of the Chaste, all tightly coiled elegance. Money changes hands, and Mattie touches Frank’s arm, gesturing down. She knows Turk well enough to recognize the specific scents that cling to both him and his car. Frank nods. Mattie lightly lets herself down from the roof, and slips into the back seat of Turk’s car before he turns the corner. He climbs into the driver’s seat, and Mattie leaps on him, holding her staff across his throat, pinning him to the seat. He scrabbles for the gun under his jacket, and she kicks his elbow as Frank climbs into the passenger seat.

“Aw, shit,” Turk says. “No, no, no, man, you don’t need to do this…”

“Holster under the jacket,” Mattie says. Frank reaches in and pulls out the gun, tucking it somewhere in the recesses of his own coat. “Really, is that how you greet someone back from the dead?” Mattie purrs, feeling the devil stretching in her chest.

“It’s great to see you, D, no need to get _him_ involved,” Turk says.

Mattie adjusts her grip on the staff, letting Turk choke for a second or two.

“Now, the lady has a few questions,” Frank says. “I recommend answering them.”

“Yeah - yeah,” Turk gasps.

“Tell me about Lester,” Mattie says.

“I don’t know -“ Turk starts, and he’s already lying.

“Lying,” she whispers, and Frank punches him in the gut. She can feel the devil begging to be let out. “Let’s try that again.”

Turk snorts derisively.

“Oh, so you’re good cop, D?” he says.

Frank’s face turns to her, and she shrugs. She twists the staff, separating the clubs, and holsters them. Turk starts breathing with relief, right before she grabs his arm and twists it behind the seat, hearing the pop of his shoulder dislocate.

“We’re not cops,” she says, “and I’m not the good one.” She slips her leg between the front seats, shifting so that she’s crouched between Turk and Frank, facing Turk. She grabs his jaw. “Lester. Killed a girl in Midtown about three weeks ago. Probably been flashing a pair of sai since then.”

“Yeah, I know the cat,” Turk says with defeat in his voice. “Crazy asshole’s been around a while. Freelancer.”

“Who’s he work for now?”

“Anyone who’ll pay him. Someone had a beef with your girl, probably them.”

“Names.”

“Don’t be stupid, D, this is a _professional_. Ain’t no way he’s ever gonna let drop who his employers are unless they want him to.”

“Who did?”

Turk sighs. “Kitchen Irish used him once. Diamondback, a while back. Rumour was your boy Fisk had him on payroll.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Don’t work like that. You put the word out, and he finds you.”

Mattie smiles, and hits Turk’s shoulder, popping the joint back in. “Put the word out,” she says, under his scream.

Frank slides out the passenger seat, and she slips out after him when she hears Turk behind her. “Don’t need to.”

She’ll never tell Frank about the chill that Turk’s tone sends down her spine.

The rest of the night, there is no sign of either Simpson or Lester.

Foggy is victorious at the library, and so, apparently, is Jessica, because she calls a meeting in her apartment.

“OK, so found some of the reports on my accident,” she says, turning her laptop around. Foggy peers at it. His heart starts beating in excitement.

“Oh, this - this is great, Jess…” He swipes at his StarkPad and holds it up.

“Fuck,” Jessica says.

“You guys want to share with the rest of the class?” Mattie says.

“I found a _Bulletin_ article about your accident,” Foggy says. “The chemicals were apparently from Rand Oil  & Chemicals.”

She can hear the smug satisfaction in his voice.

“Let me guess -“ she says.

“Report from my accident says the truck our car hit was carrying cargo from Rand Oil & Chemicals,” Jessica says.

“Currently known as Rand Enterprises,” Foggy helpfully supplies.

“So…they’re a supplier for IGH?” Mattie says.

“Looks like. You’re sure your dad never tried to sue anyone over your accident?”

Mattie shakes her head. “Honestly, he probably didn’t know any lawyers who would’ve helped him. Not to mention being able to afford one…”

“OK, just a theory, but what if he didn’t because IGH paid for your medical bills?”

Mattie leans back on the couch and lets out a long breath. She tries to picture her dad, single, living from fight to fight, suddenly faced with a disabled daughter. “It’s possible.” There’s a pause. “We need the records from Rand.”

“That’s where we’re in luck,” Jessica says. “I did a job for Joy Meachum a few months back. Think I can get a meeting with her. But we’ll need more than eighteen-year-old accidents for leverage.”

“That we can get. Set it up.”

Which is how Mattie and Jessica wind up sitting in Joy Meachum’s office two days later.

“What is this?” Joy says, flipping through the folder Jessica handed her. “Are you threatening to sue?”

“Our client is just looking for answers,” Mattie says. She can _feel_ Jessica rolling her eyes. “If you help us, we’d be happy to sign any NDAs you put in front of us, and keep Rand from being implicated in anything we find.”

“And if I don’t?” Joy says, unamused.

Mattie smiles. “Rand is currently having some…image problems, isn’t it? You’ve got the Staten Island chemical plant lawsuit, then Danny Rand shows up, after fifteen years…none of this looks good. We can make it worse for you. Ben Urich and Karen Page are _always_ looking for a story. Ellison at the _Bulletin_ and Jameson at the _Bugle_? They’d eat it up with a spoon.”

Joy sits back in her chair. “I’ll have the NDAs drawn up,” she snaps. “Give me half an hour.”

Half an hour, sitting in the reception area, listening to things that should be confidential. If Mattie knew how to play the stock market, she’d be sitting on a goldmine.

At one point, a young guy, younger than Mattie and Jessica, crosses the hallway, saying “Hi, Megan” to the executive assistant. He pauses, looking at Mattie, and Mattie…can’t put her finger on what’s different about him. Power, the way Nobu used to carry it, but different from that.

The closest comparison she can think is Madam Gao, in her basement in Chinatown.

“Who was that?” Mattie says to Jessica.

“Rand himself,” Jessica says.

The man back from the dead. _There is no such thing_ , Nobu had said, and Mattie’s heart aches.

Joy Meachum shoves some papers in front of them, and Jessica reads them over to Mattie. Standard NDAs, neat and precise and watertight. Then they’re shuffled off to a different floor, with a Rand employee named Lara who seems to be in charge of the records. Jessica tears through boxes from 1999, and Lara helps her.

Three hours later, Jessica finds something.

“Paperwork about a lost shipment, dated the same day as your accident.” 

Lara copies some entries off the form, and says she can try to track down information on the shipment. Jessica starts digging through the July records, and turns up another lost shipment form.

“Huh,” Lara says, looking at the two pieces of paper.

“What is it?” Mattie says.

“Uh, it looks like these shipments were part of the same contract.”

Mattie and Jessica both stiffen.

“We’re going to need everything you have on that contract,” Mattie says.

Lara disappears to her office to search the digital records. As soon as she’s out of the room, Mattie plunges her hands into the paperwork, reading the printed papers with her fingertips.

“Got more shipments on the same contract,” Jessica says.

Mattie finds the dates at the top of the papers. “Got them going back to the start of 1999. Delivery address is a research lab downtown.”

“Yeah, same here.” Jessica is typing into her phone.

Lara returns with a sheaf of papers. “So, I found a copy of the contract,” she says brightly. “The shipments were for a medical research project that Rand was co-funding, looks like it was researching child development.”

“Was Rand conducting the case studies?” Mattie says.

Lara checks the papers. “No, we were responsible for developing the treatments, and had rights to any patents. The case studies were conducted by a research firm called IGH.”

“Thanks,” Jessica says, and she and Mattie jump to their feet.

“Did Rand patent anything from that project?” Mattie says, turning back from the door.

Lara shuffles through the papers. “It doesn’t look like it.”

“Good.”

Mattie and Jessica are quiet on the subway to Trish’s apartment.

“It really was an accident,” Mattie says.

“Yeah,” Jessica says. “They probably just wanted to keep tabs on us. See what the effects were.”

Mattie nods. “I lied,” she says. “When they tested me, back then. I lied about…what the chemicals did to me.”

“Me too.”

Mattie listens to the rattle of the train.

“Did they just let us go? Back then?”

“Maybe,” Jessica says. “Maybe they couldn’t anymore. I mean, you wound up in an orphanage, and I got adopted by Dorothy Walker, who’s enough to put fear into anyone’s heart.”

“Maybe.” _Maybe._

Trish calls a general meeting once she hears about the new developments: Foggy, Karen and Ben show up within the hour.

“So that’s it,” Trish says, after the day’s work has been summarized. “We’ve connected everything.”

“Not everything,” Jessica says.

“It’s solid enough,” Ben says, which is high praise indeed.

“We don’t have the link to Fisk,” Mattie says.

She can _hear_ them hesitating.

“I think that’s a different story,” Ben says carefully.

Mattie throws herself to her feet. “We don’t implicate him in this, then nothing changes. He’s still the Kingpin in Ryker’s.”

“Mattie -“ Foggy says.

“I know, and I want to make him pay as much as you do,” Karen says over him, “but there’s a difference between what we know and what we can prove.”

“And Ben’s right,” Trish says, “Fisk’s involvement is a different story. Find that proof, we can talk about that, too.”

Mattie is still fuming as she goes out. She crouches on the roof, trying to stretch out her senses, when the sharp smell of smoke suddenly wafts her way. She takes off after it, not paying much attention to _where_ it is, until she lands a block away, and realizes that the burning building is the warehouse where she’d dragged Vladimir the night Fisk had bombed the Russians’ operations.

_He’ll find you._ She throws herself to the roof a bare fraction of a second before the shot rings out. This one’s a bullet, and she hears Lester’s voice whispering “Bitch” as he lines up another shot. The devil growls Elektra’s name in her ear, and she shoots the grappling line, swinging across to where he’s perched, across the street from the burning warehouse. She twists as he takes another shot, arching her back and feeling the tail end of her mask flutter in the slipstream of the bullet. She lands in a roll, reeling in the grappling line and swinging up into the barrel of the rifle as another shot goes wide. Lester slams the butt of the rifle into her side, and she rolls with the blow, flipping to her feet and snapping her clubs together into the staff. Lester drops the rifle and draws Elektra’s sai from under his coat, giving Mattie a salute.

“Wondering when you’d be back, babe,” he says.

“I was never gone,” she snarls, stepping in.

She tries to slam her staff into his side, but he catches it in the prongs of the sai, and they’re fighting hard. Lester is all brute force, and Mattie twists and spins away from his assault, until she hears a voice crackling over an earpiece.

“Lester, stop dicking around and put her down.” Simpson. Of course. Lester growls in frustration as Mattie drives her knee up into him. His sai jab at her, one narrowly missing her throat as she parries. “Jesus Christ, don’t kill her, asshole!”

Lester laughs, and the devil screams in her chest before he stabs at Mattie again. 

“Fuck, we’re almost there!” Simpson’s voice says. Mattie can hear him running up the stairs with one other person, and Lester is pulling her in close, his breath hot on her face.

“Don’t _appreciate_ having to do the same job twice. Bad for business,” he growls, slamming the hilt of the sai across her face. She tastes blood, and turns her head to spit when the point of the sai presses against the underside of her jaw. She grabs the blade before he can push it in, fighting with all her strength.

The door to the stairs slams open, and Mattie manages to turn the sai sideways, letting it stab into her shoulder instead as they roll to the ground. There’s the light sound of the dart gun, and Lester yelps as one of them hits him. She kicks him off her, and as she stands the air around her erupts into flame, and she realizes that she recognizes the woman with Simpson.

_Mary._ The pyrokinetic who killed Nobu. Who would have burned her, too.

She charges at them, dodging fire and darts, until she tackles Simpson. He tries to slam his pistol across her face, but she blocks it with her forearm, backhanding Mary with her club when Mary tries to grab her, and Lester’s staggering to his feet, sai plunging into the mess of bodies, and she can’t take all three of them.

She frees herself from the melee and leaps without thinking, shooting the grappling line at the nearest structure, and swings across the street and onto the roof of the burning warehouse. Mary’s handiwork. Again. The roof is hot under her boots, and she can hear the beams burning underneath her feet, so she runs as lightly as she can until she gets to the opposite side of the building, and jumps again, swinging away.

She’s coughing badly when she gets home, and she can still smell smoke, but it’s probably just whatever’s clinging to her body after her run across the roof. Foggy gives her water, and she hears the sirens.

“They’re not - they’re not going towards…” She stands at the window, and _listens_.

Ever since her accident, she’s played the game, following the sirens. Since she became Daredevil, she’s learned how to figure out where they’re going.

“48th and 9th, 42nd and 10th,” she recites.

“What?” Foggy says.

“The warehouse was near 47th and 12th,” she says.

“What warehouse?”

“Where Lester and Simpson were. They set it on fire to lure me in.” She pulls on the mask and pushes the window open.

“Mattie, if they’re setting a trap -“

“I don’t think it’s a trap. It’s a message.”

“Why? What do those mean?”

“They’re the locations Fisk bombed to take out the Russians. It’s a threat.”

“Against you?”

“Against the city. He’s threatening to tear it apart, just like he did last time.” She climbs out onto the fire escape. “And there are still innocent people who could get caught in the crossfire.”

Foggy nods, and leans out the window. She kisses him.

“Be careful,” he says.

“You know me better than that.”

She heads to 48th and 9th first, since it’s the most likely to have civilians caught in the fire, and finds the FDNY fighting the fire that has spread across three buildings. She swings into one of the upper stories, picking up an unconscious elderly woman and an extremely terrified cat, and lowering herself to the sidewalk on her grappling line. She deposits the woman and the cat in the firefighters’ arms before taking off to 42nd and 10th, where she finds a homeless man caught under burning wreckage. She drags him into the alley behind the burning building, before he staggers away.

Simpson, Lester, and Mary are nowhere to be found. She slams her fist into a brick wall in fury.

The next night, Ben’s old apartment building goes up in flames. Mattie helps rescue some of the residents. She’s just handing over a small dog to the child who had told her in sobs that it was still inside when she recognizes a heartbeat across the street. Simpson. Alone. He walks away before she can run after him.

The night after that, it’s the old Nelson & Murdock office that burns down. A few hours later, a sniper kills three people at the building where she’d fought the Dogs of Hell. He’s gone by the time she arrives, leaving only a playing card.

“It’s like…” Foggy says, running his hands through his hair. “It’s like he’s trying to _erase_ what you’ve done.”

She nods as he goes back to dabbing burn cream onto her shoulder. _Sleeves, Melvin. They’re important._

“He’s holding Hell’s Kitchen hostage,” she says grimly. “And I can try to predict where he’ll hit next, but -“

“There’s always somewhere else he could hit.” He wipes his cream-smeared fingers on a tissue before he brushes her cheek with his knuckles. “Guess you’ve been a little _too_ effective, kitten.”

She smiles and leans into his touch.

“What does he _want_?” he says.

“Surrender,” she says. And she knows _where_ , too.

Foggy’s heart is beating fast, and he wraps his hand around the back of her neck, pulling her against him with his lips against her hair. “Don’t. Ever.”

“Never,” she lies.

She can’t sleep, listening for yet another round of sirens, terrified she won’t be there in time for the next one. She turns over the problem in her head, wanting to scream with rage at the man who has outplanned her yet again.

She’d gone by the alley where she’d defeated Fisk, on the suspicion that Simpson, Lester and Mary would be waiting for her. She’d been partly right - Simpson had been there, flanked by five armed men. She could hear the pills rattling in Simpson’s pocket. Lester had been up on the roof, and Mary sitting on the fire escape. Simpson and his men, she could take. Adding Lester and Mary to the mix…she’s not so sure.

It didn’t stop her from wanting to throw Lester off the roof and hear him hit the pavement below.

The next night, it’s the 15th Precinct.

It’s chaos out on the street, people milling about, cops administering first aid. She lands on the rooftop across the street, and hears someone say something about the cells being blocked. Mattie hoists her clubs and swings across, crashing through a window on an upper floor. The heat is unbearable, but she works her way down. She knows the layout of the ground floor by memory, and she can hear frantic pounding down by the cells. Brett’s voice, calling that they’re going to get them out of there.

_Dammit, Brett, why did you have to be the one good cop in Hell’s Kitchen?_

She’s coughing from the smoke as she gets to where Brett and another cop are desperately trying to force open the reinforced door that leads to the cells.

“It’s jammed!” Brett coughs out over the sound of the flames. Then - “What the hell?”

“Stand back,” she says. She lays her ear against the metal and taps, listening. She can hear where the metal is crumpled in the hinges, rendering them immobile. Mattie thinks of Mary stopping a dart in midair. “Hinges’ve been tampered with,” she says. She wishes Jessica were here. Or Luke. “Metal’s weak there, we need a drill or a crowbar.” The cop who’s not Brett holds up a crowbar.

“We were trying -“

“Yeah, I can tell,” she says, grabbing it. They’d been trying to pry the door open on the lock side, but that’s not where the problem is. She jams the crowbar in next to the hinge. “Help me.”

They push, all three of them, until she hears the metal snap. They repeat the process on the lower hinges, and then Mattie tells them to stand back as she kicks at the door, forcing it inwards until it falls with a crash. There’s a small crowd of people on the other side, some already unconscious on the floor.

“Come on!” Brett shouts, taking charge, telling them to follow the other cop, carry the unconscious ones out. He and Mattie carry a particularly large man between them. Mattie can hear the structure fracturing around them from the heat.

“Look out!” she shouts, shoving Brett and their charge to the side as a beam collapses, raining debris down on her. She feels Brett’s hands grabbing her, pulling her free, and she realizes too late that her mask has slipped.

“Jesus,” Brett says, but he’s cut off by more coughing. Mattie crawls to her knees and pulls the mask down.

“Let’s get him out of here,” she says, jerking her head towards the man they were carrying.

“Yeah.”

They hoist him up, draped between their shoulders, and keep going, not stopping until they hit the cool air outside. EMTs rush forward and take him away, loading him onto a gurney. They’re just about to start pulling Mattie and Brett over to one of the ambulances when Brett turns to her.

“You and me need to have a talk,” he says, still coughing.

“Don’t we always?” she says.

She turns and runs, shooting the grappling line and swinging up and away.

Jessica is still up when she gets home, so Mattie knocks on her window. She can smell the open bottle of bourbon.

“There enough for two?” Mattie says.

“Yeah.”

Mattie climbs in, pulling off the mask.

“I think I’m going to be arrested tomorrow,” she says, taking a drink out of the mug Jessica puts in front of her.

“Why’s that?”

“Cop friend of mine knows who I am now.” She knocks back the bourbon, and Jessica pours her another. “The whole arson campaign that’s been going on? That’s Simpson and Lester. There’s a pyrokinetic named Mary who worked for Fisk, they’ve got her setting the fires. She burned down the 15th tonight.” And the story pours out of her, Fisk holding the city hostage, the fact that she knows she can stop it by turning herself over to Simpson.

“And - Jesus - I could barely get that door open, and all I could think is that it would be so much easier if I were strong like you -“

“You can call, you know,” Jessica says, her tone diffident, but her heart sincere. “I mean, I realize you didn’t really have a lot of time tonight, but…yeah, I can help.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

Jessica leans back, her foot braced against the desk.

“You need help taking Simpson down?” she says.

Mattie works her jaw around the word. “Yes,” she admits.

“I got scores to settle there. Sign me up.” She leans forward, taking a drink. “But no more ninjas. There’s a line there.”

Mattie smiles. “Thank you.”

“You’re right,” Jessica says, and Mattie is surprised by how vulnerable she sounds. “They’re better than us. So we have to protect them.”

“Yeah.” Mattie drains the glass again. “Not sure how I’m going to do that from inside a jail cell…”

“Well, the jail cells just got burned down,” Jessica says. “And you know a hell of a lawyer.”

“That I do.”

She heads upstairs after that. Foggy is…displeased would be an understatement. 

“Brett’s a _cop_ ,” he says.

“Well aware of that.”

“We can’t lie to him.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“What _were_ you planning?”

“Uh, something along the lines of saving his life? Didn’t really get much further than that.”

Foggy groans and runs his hands through his hair.

“You can run,” he says.

“I’m not going to do that. If he asks, I’m not going to deny anything.”

“Mattie, if you don’t he’s going to -“

He doesn’t have to say it. _He’s going to take you away from me._

She takes his hands. “Let’s see what he has to say.”

They don’t sleep. They make love in a desperate, clinging way, both aware that this may be their last chance in a very long time.

Brett knocks on their door at nine o’clock. Sharp.

“I need to talk to Mattie,” he says when Foggy opens the door. “Alone.”

“She’s entitled to counsel,” Foggy says.

“She’s not under arrest. Not yet.”

“Brett,” Mattie says, coming around the corner from the kitchen holding two mugs of coffee. “It’s OK. Foggy knows.”

“So you were both lying?” Brett says.

“Yes. Have a cup of coffee.”

“I don’t want - the hell? How long have we known each other?” Brett explodes.

“Long enough that I understand why you’re upset.”

“Damn right I’m upset - I _trusted_ you - both of you! Give me one good reason I shouldn’t drag both your asses down to the precinct right now.”

“The…precinct burned down?” Foggy says.

“Figure of speech,” Brett says, not amused at all.

“You didn’t arrest me last night,” Mattie says. She holds out a mug of coffee. “Please, just have a cup of coffee. Give me that much time.”

She can hear Brett gritting his teeth. His hand jerks toward the gun under his jacket, but he stops himself.

“You’ve got one cup of coffee to give me a damn good explanation,” he says.

Mattie smiles. If there’s anything she knows about debating, it’s when she’s already won.

Brett asks her all the obvious questions. “Are you really blind?” “So how do you do what you do?” “Why did you start being Daredevil?” “Why did you keep going?” She tells him about the world on fire, about Stick in vague terms, about Zoe McLennan and Karen Page and the Russians and Elena Cardenas.

Brett finishes his coffee. “So what the fuck was up with the ninjas last year?”

And Mattie can’t stop herself from laughing, and she realizes that Brett is laughing too. Foggy relaxes next to her and squeezes her thigh.

She explains as best she can about the Hand, about the Yakuza and Midland Circle and Stick’s death. Foggy doles out more instant coffee.

“Did you tamper with the witness in the Castle trial?” Brett says.

“No.” She puts her hand on Foggy’s and he squeezes back. “That was Elektra, my…my ex. She was…it’s complicated, but she was trying to break me and Foggy up. And sabotaging the trial was a good way to do that.”

Brett nods, then stops. “You’re not telling her I nodded,” he says.

“She doesn’t need that,” Foggy says.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Brett says softly. He takes a sip of coffee. “Who’s burning down Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Fisk,” she says. “He’s trying to smoke me out. He’s telling me I have to turn myself over to his men, or he’ll burn Hell’s Kitchen to the ground.”

“You going to let him?”

“No.” _Not if you let me go._

Brett lets out a long breath. “You got a plan? Aside from saving old ladies and ex-cons from burning buildings?”

“I’ve got the beginnings of one.”

There’s a pause. Brett spreads his hands. “And?”

“What, you want to know?”

“Yeah, I want to know. This isn’t just _your_ city they’re burning, so if you’ve got a plan, I want in.”

“I’m not sure you should be involved -“

“You dragged me into this, remember? You pulled me into the Fisk investigation, and it’s apparently still ongoing.”

She sighs, and goes to the box where she’s keeping her suit, and pulls out the playing card Lester left.

“This mean anything to you?” she says, handing it to Brett.

“Where’d you get this?”

“Rooftop where the sniper was two nights ago.”

“Shit,” Brett says eloquently. “Bullseye’s mixed up in this?”

“I heard his name was Lester.”

“He’s had a lot of names, nobody’s sure what the real one is. We call him Bullseye, but he’s mostly a boogeyman for the rookies. How’s he involved?”

“He’s working for Fisk, working with Will Simpson to take me down. They’re how we can connect everything that’s happened to him.”

She explains about IGH and Fisk’s vendetta.

“Yeah, well, suddenly a lot of things make a lot more sense,” Brett says grumpily. “Your IGH stuff, any of it admissable?”

“A lot of it,” Foggy says.

Brett nods. “Anything admissable, send it to me. And _you_ ,” he points at Mattie, “if you’ve got a plan to get Simpson and the rest, then do it.”

“We don’t have any evidence to connect them to Fisk, and we can’t guarantee they’ll plea bargain out.”

“Don’t need them to. _I_ just want them off the streets, which is your job. IGH is mine, now, and if we play this right, they’ll give us Fisk in return for not taking a murder rap.”

Mattie nods. It’s a good plan.

“Thank you, Brett,” she says.

“Don’t thank me. Don’t think that this makes up for the shit you’ve pulled. We are _not_ even. Just because I’m working with you doesn’t mean I like it.”

She smiles. “Remind me to introduce you to Misty Knight. You’ll like her.”

“She one of you, too?”

“She’s a cop, up in Harlem. Dealt with Luke Cage a lot. You two have a lot in common.”

Brett makes an annoyed sound.

“I’ll call Trish, she can walk you through the IGH stuff,” Foggy says. “That’s Trish _Walker_ , by the way.”

“Shit, Patsy?”

“She doesn’t like being called that,” Foggy says, pulling out his phone. Mattie hears Trish pick up on the other end.

“How the hell did you get her mixed up in this?” Brett says.

“She was already in it, before we were. Simpson tried to kill her last year.”

Brett shakes his head. “Yeah, he was always kind of a dick.”

“I’m pretty sure he hit on me once.”

“Also likely.”

Foggy hangs up and tells Brett that Trish is waiting for them.

“One more question,” Brett says as they head for the door. “The leather catsuit? Really?”

Mattie holds up her hands. “Just a temporary situation. I’m getting a new armored suit.”

“Horns and all?”

“Yes. Probably.”

Brett nods. “Just so you know, the leather’s _very_ popular with the NYPD.”

“You’re a dick, Brett.”

“You owe me.”

The conversation reminds her that she needs to stop by Melvin’s to get the new suit. But first -

“Karen said you wanted to talk,” Frank says, standing on her roof as the sun goes down.

“I need your help,” she says, to the one person she’s comfortable saying that to.

He doesn’t hesitate. “You got it, Red.”

She hears shots ringing out as she makes her way to Melvin’s; the devil screams at the thought of Lester killing more innocents, but he’s gone by the time she gets there, leaving another playing card for her. She pauses, trying to remember why Lester would have chosen this place. Then she remembers - this was where Frank kidnapped her, where the deal with Reyes had gone south.

There are two bodies on the ground beneath her, beyond her help. She prays for forgiveness.

Melvin has outdone himself with the new suit; the armor is even lighter, and gives her better coverage.

“Still think it would look better with a logo,” he says as she tests her movement.

“Nope.”

She hears a scraping as he fiddles with a tool on the bench.

“Is it Mr Fisk?” he says quietly.

“Yes. I’m going to take care of it, don’t worry.”

He picks something up. “I can help you.”

“Melvin, you don’t -“

“You know I can fight,” he says, and it’s true. She remembers the night they first met very well. “And - here, I’ll show you.”

He pulls on some sort of gauntlet, and she realizes that the circular saw he was working on last time is attached to it. He flicks his wrist, and the saw starts buzzing.

“That’s - “ she stammers. “How do you even come up with that?”

“It comes to me.” The buzzing stops. “If Mr Fisk is back, I want to help you. We keep each other safe, right?” He steps in and puts a hand on her shoulder. “If Mr Fisk comes back, then Betsy’s not safe. You know what it’s like, to want to protect someone you care about?”

“Yes.”

“So let me help you.”

She wears the new suit the next night. Melvin nods with quiet pride when they assemble on the roof of a building three blocks from the alley where Simpson is waiting for her. And the final piece of the puzzle falls into place when Jessica leaps to the roof, Trish Walker holding onto her.

“You’re Patsy,” Melvin says.

“Trish, actually,” Trish says, holding out her hand. “Nice to meet you…?”

“Mel - Melvin.”

“Nice to meet you. Those look dangerous.” Trish is holding Melvin’s hand, examining the sawblades on his forearms.

“They’re supposed to be.”

“You sure you want to be here?” Mattie says.

“We’re taking Simpson down, right?” Trish says. “Then hell, yes.”

“What’s the plan, Red?” Frank says.

“Go in, hit ‘em hard, and don’t die,” Mattie says.

“Seriously?” Jessica says.

Mattie smiles. “No.”

She’s better than _that_.

She uses her grappling line to swing into the alley, landing in a crouch directly in front of Simpson and his goons. The five thugs level their rifles at her as she reels in her club. Simpson, she notes, only has a handgun, as his other arm is still in a cast.

“Drop the clubs and get on your knees,” he says.

“What, you think you can get to third base without dinner and a movie?” she says, smiling. She snaps the clubs apart, one in each hand. She hears the safeties being taken off the guns aimed at her. Above her, she can hear Lester and Mary, waiting.

“Drop the weapons now,” Simpson says.

She lets her body slide into a fighting stance.

“Did you think I came here to _surrender_?” she says.

His heart gives him away. She jumps and twists as they open fire, landing in their midst, and starts swinging. She hears the buzz of sawblades and a woman’s battle cry behind her, and Trish and Melvin are charging in. The IGH men are tough and fast, hopped up on the Combat Enhancers, and they _keep getting back up_. To her left, she hears Simpson slam Trish against the wall, saying “Trish! You look great!” before she grunts and plants a knee in his side. Melvin is taking on two at a time, sawing through gun barrels, and there’s a flash of heat that hits him from above. He shouts, and Mattie screams, “Jessica!”

“On it!” comes Jessica’s voice, and she’s landing on the fire escape above Mary, and Mattie can feel the heat up there as Mary builds a wall of flame, but Mattie has her own problems to deal with.

Three problems, all of which are armed and skilled and not willing to stay down.

A shot from above hits the outside of her arm, and the devil is clawing at her to take out Lester, but that’s Frank’s job, she can hear them trading gunfire up on the roofs. She kicks one of the IGH men backwards, and he takes one of Melvin’s sawblades across the back, screaming.

_One down._

She takes blows to her body as she gets in close. She’s managed to get their rifles out of their grips, but they’ve both got knives, and she has to deflect them with her clubs. When one of them tries to stab her, she traps his arm against her side and breaks his elbow, smashing her free hand across the other’s face. She flips, throwing the one with the broken elbow to the ground and landing on top of him, and bashes his head against the concrete. He finally stays down. The last one is still reeling when she snaps her arm out at his knee, breaking it, then hits up at his chin as he falls. He’s down.

It’s quiet on the ground, Melvin and Trish are still standing, but there’s still gunfire on the roofs and fire on the fire escape.

And Lester…Lester is fleeing.

“All of you, help Jessica!” Mattie shouts as she snaps the clubs together and shoots the grappling line. She swings away, after the man who killed Elektra.

She lands on the roof in front of Lester, immediately rolling to avoid being shot. She throws her club at him, and it knocks the gun out of his hand, and she runs at him, the devil’s scream tearing out of her throat. He throws something that slices through the thin layer that covers her throat, but it just sticks in the muscle, and it falls away when she’s on him. He punches up, snapping her head back, and gets a sai out of his coat, trying to drive it up under her sternum, but she jerks sideways off of him, and it skitters off her armor. He gets the other sai out, and tries to drive it down into her body, rolling onto her, but she catches it with her remaining club.

“Those don’t belong to you!” she snarls as she twists her club, freeing the sai from his grip. It clatters to the ground.

“Winner takes all, girlie,” he says, punching her. “And you may be good…” He hits her again, this time with the hilt of the second sai. “But I’m _magic_.”

He raises the sai, about to plunge it into her throat, and she reaches up and drags him down by the front of his shirt, headbutting him. She rolls, straddling him, and hits. And hits. And hits, with Elektra’s voice in her ear and the scent of jasmine curling around the edges of the reek of blood.

She slams the end of her club into his forehead, stamping a perfect circle there. She doesn’t stop. She hears teeth break, hears bone shatter. Elektra is dead, because she loved Mattie.

And a strong arm is wrapping around her, pulling her off of Lester’s inert body. Still a heartbeat. She’s not done yet.

“Easy, easy,” Jessica is saying. She smells of smoke and burnt hair, and Mattie tries to fight out of her grip, but can’t break it. “He’s down. It’s over.”

“He killed Elektra,” Mattie growls, still fighting to finish what she started.

“I know…I know…” Jessica has both arms around her, pinning her. “You don’t want to do this.”

“You killed Kilgrave!”

“You don’t want to be like me. You’re _better_ than me. You have to be. For all of them. For Foggy.” Mattie is still struggling, and Jessica tightens her grip. “Mattie. He’s waiting.” Jessica’s voice is soft, and Mattie doesn’t know when she stopped struggling to get away, and started clinging to Jessica, burying her face in scorched leather.

It’s not exactly crying. It’s more like a storm breaking inside her, coming out in howls and dry sobs. Jessica holds her and waits for it to pass.

Frank Castle is the one who finds them, after Jessica has released Mattie.

“Your sister’s calling the cops,” he says.

“I’ll get this one down to them,” Jessica says. She goes to pick up Lester.

“Wait,” Mattie says.

“Mattie -“

“I’m not going to kill him.” She stands over Lester’s body, then crushes his right hand under her boot heel. Then she does the same with his left. Permanent damage, she hopes.

“Jesus!” Jessica says.

“Not even close,” Mattie says. She picks up Elektra’s sai. “You can take him now.”

Jessica takes Lester and carries him away, back to the alley.

“Not dead,” Frank says.

“Not dead.”

He nods. “You didn’t tell me not to kill him.”

“No. I didn’t.” She doesn’t know if she regrets that.

He bends and picks up her club, then holds it out to her. “Go back to them, Red.”

She takes the club.

“Thanks, Frank.”

“See you around.”

They wait for Brett in the alley, surrounded by the wounded. Mattie’s arm hurts like a bitch, but it’s just a graze. Barely even bleeding.

“You know, I didn’t mention it before,” Trish says, “but I like the new look.”

“Thanks,” Mattie says. She leans in. “What does it look like?”

“Black,” Trish says. “Red accents on the belt, the holsters, the boots and the gauntlets. Those look like boxing wraps, by the way.”

Mattie smiles. “Sounds cool.”

“It is. Badass.”

“You know, if you’re going to be doing this regularly, you should talk to Melvin. He’s the one who made it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Huh.” Trish saunters over to Melvin. “So I hear you’re the vigilante tailor?”

Mattie smiles as she listens to Trish and Melvin. She listens to the heartbeats of the people they defeated, the people sent to capture her.

Fisk’s war against her took her job, her home, and someone she cared about. But she’s still standing, still free, and she has a husband she loves and friends who walked into battle with her.

Maybe that’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lester's "but I'm magic" is, of course, taken from Frank Miller's run on Daredevil. Hey, I had to include something from the Bullseye-Elektra fight!
> 
> Mattie's new look is based on the Daredevil costume in the current run. For non-comics readers, it looks like this: https://static.comicvine.com/uploads/original/0/6063/5013415-dd2015003_dc21_lr-0.jpg


	8. Lionheart

Jacques arrives a week after the showdown. Foggy is out, consulting with Blake Tower on the case against IGH and Fisk, so Mattie offers Jacques a drink and solemnly presents him with Elektra’s sai.

“Where is she?” Jacques says.

Mattie hesitates. “I don’t know. If…she wasn’t claimed, the city would have buried her.”

“I need to know. We can’t let her fall into _their_ hands.”

“She’s dead,” Mattie says wearily. “What more can they do to her?”

“Death is not the end.”

Mattie takes a sip of tea. “She said that to me, when she died.”

Jacques puts his hand on her shoulder. “She loved you.”

“And I loved her.” _You’d never love me the way you love him._

Jacques stands, sliding the sai under his jacket at his back.

“The war…it’s here,” he says. “The path is open, and the Iron Fist has abandoned K’un-Lun.”

Mattie frowns. “Is that some sort of pass phrase? Like ‘The eagle flies at midnight?'”

“Stick never told you?”

“I think we both know Stick told me jack shit.”

Jacques sighs. “The Iron Fist was the guardian of K’un-Lun. Without him…” He shrugs. “Elektra was a Black Sky. If the Hand can bring her back…”

“You think that’s their plan?”

Jacques nods. “I should go. Find where she’s buried.”

“I have a cop friend who can help,” she says, standing up and leading him to the door.

“Thank you.” He stops in the doorway. “K’un-Lun sent one of their warriors to find the Iron Fist. He may try to find you. If he does -“

“I’ll help however I can.” She smiles. “But what’s K’un-Lun?”

“One of the Capital Cities of Heaven,” he says, as if it’s obvious.

“Thanks, that really explains everything.”

“Not everything needs an explanation,” he says lightly. “His name is Davos. If you come across him.”

“Sure.”

He kisses her cheek. “ _Au revoir_ , Daredevil.”

She’s left with more questions than answers.

The IGH documents lead to mass arrests of their personnel, the day that Karen and Ben publish their expose, and Trish Walker has them on _Trish Talk_ to tell the world. Brett tells her that Dr Koslov gave up Fisk within minutes of being interrogated.

“Deal was,” Brett says, “Fisk wanted you destroyed, and told IGH they could have you dead or alive when they were done.”

Mattie can feel the rage building. _My body was traded as currency._ She’s not a _thing_.

“Did you find the records, on the study in ’99?” she says instead.

“Yeah. Twenty kids with chronic conditions or disabilities. Five of them dead within the year. Fourteen dead before they hit twenty-five,” Brett says.

“And the last one?”

“Deaf girl, name of Lopez. Still trying to track her down.” Brett clears his throat. “Found the files on you and Jones, too.” He puts two folders on the table.

“Tell me.”

“It was an accident. IGH paid off your dad so they could monitor you in case you showed any…reaction. They lost track of you when he died, closed the file. Re-opened it when Fisk contacted them and told them you might be…gifted.”

“Gifted.” _Blessed_ , that was what the woman had said, all those years ago in the hospital.

“Still don’t know what you are, myself,” Brett says. “Pain in my ass, more often than not.”

“Sorry,” she says, the corner of her mouth tilting up.

“No, you’re not.”

It’s Foggy who manages to take revenge. He works with Tower to build the case, and convinces Tower to have Fisk transferred to a federal prison in Louisiana, far from his influence.

The day Fisk is transferred, Mattie and Foggy stand outside the prison gates, Jessica and Trish with them. As Fisk is led across the prison yard to the armored van that will take him to Louisiana, he sees them, and stops. Mattie smiles and raises her hand. Fisk doesn’t say anything, but the moment stretches between them before he’s hustled into the van.

It’s as much of a victory as she’ll ever get, until one of them dies.

Tower is sufficiently impressed with Foggy that he tells Foggy that there will be an ADA position opening up; Tower is planning on running for DA.

“Prosecution, huh?” Mattie says.

“Is it weird that I kind of like the idea?” Foggy says.

“A little.” She grins. “Not a lot of money to be made in the DA’s office.”

“Salary’s OK, though. And, well…”

She nods. They need some sort of income. The job market sucks, and she’s only had a handful of interviews, and the spectre of the Castle case follows her everywhere.

“It’s not glamorous,” he continues, “but…I could do some good there, I think.”

“You sound like me.”

“There are worse things to sound like.”

She kisses him.

“Just don’t get yourself arrested,” he says, smiling against her lips. “I will kick your ass. Legally speaking.”

“Bring it, Nelson.”

It’s three weeks after the battle when she hears it.

She knows what the sound means. When she was eleven, she heard it coming from her math teacher, Mrs Strickland. She’d been convinced she was going insane, until she’d broken and told Stick, who had sighed and told her what she was hearing.

“It’s not a heartbeat, it’s too fast!” she’d said.

“They’re fast at that point, Mattie, just sounds like a little hum.”

And now there’s one inside her.

She bombs the interview she has in the morning. Foggy finds her sitting on the fire escape when he comes home from work.

“What’s wrong, kitten?” he says.

She doesn’t try to soften the blow. Doesn’t try to sugar coat it. How could she?

“I think I’m pregnant,” she says.

To Foggy’s credit, his heartbeat skyrockets as he climbs out onto the fire escape with her, but he keeps his voice even.

“Are you late?” he says.

She nods. That in itself doesn’t mean anything; it’s been a stressful couple of months.

“I can hear it,” she says. “There’s a heartbeat.”

Foggy takes a deep breath.

“So, this is less you _think_ and more you _know_.”

She nods, and leans her head on his shoulder.

“We should do a test, just to be sure,” she says. “Can you take a test this early?”

“I think so.” He wraps his arm around her shoulders. “Do you want me to go get one?”

“Yeah,” she says quietly.

“OK. Drink a lot of water, I’ll be back.”

She drinks four glasses of water while she waits for him, acutely aware of the new presence at the edge of her hearing.

“OK, this one is supposed to be the best for early results, but I got _this_ one just for backup,” Foggy says, pulling little boxes out of the plastic bag. She takes the first box.

“Let’s do this,” she says.

There’s no modesty between them. He sits on the edge of the bathtub while she pees, then they set the two tests on a tissue and wait. She washes her hands, and they slide to the floor, backs against the tub, side by side. She takes his hand. They don’t say anything.

The timer on Foggy’s phone rings, and he reaches up to the counter, taking the tests down. His heart is pounding.

“Both positive,” he says.

She nods. She knew, anyway. He puts the tests down on the floor and puts his arms around her.

“What do you want to do?” he says. “It’s your choice.”

She shakes her head. “It’s _ours_ , of course I’m going to keep it.” She buries her face in his shirt. “Jesus Christ, I’m scared.”

He’s pressing his face against her hair. “I’m pretty sure every parent since the dawn of time has said that.”

She pulls back, putting her hand on his face.

“Are _you_ OK?” she says.

He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m…” She can feel him smiling. “We’re going to have a baby!”

She starts laughing, a little hysterical. “We’re going to be somebody’s parents! Oh, God, we’re never going to be cool again!”

“Lucky for me, I was never cool.” He kisses her, and she’s smiling until it hits her.

“Oh, my God! I’ve been _drinking_! And drinking coffee! Oh, shit.” _Four weeks in, and I’m already failing at being a mother._

“Hey, hey…” Foggy still has his arms around her. “You’re not the first woman to have an unplanned pregnancy. It’ll be fine. We’re gonna be fine.” He puts his hand on her stomach. “ _This_ is going to be fine.”

She curls into him, his hand still on her stomach.

“I’m going to be the grouchiest pregnant woman ever,” she says.

“I know,” he sighs. “But, uh…you know what this means…”

“I can’t go out. I know.” That’s the thought that drove her out onto the fire escape, that’s been dogging her all day. The war is coming, might already be here, and she can’t fight, not while there’s a life inside her. But it’s not as simple as putting the suit away in a box; Daredevil is part of her, and denying it would be a disaster.

“Can’t say I’m not relieved,” he says

“I know that, too.” She tries to calm herself down, listen to the _two_ heartbeats that make up her family. Her husband, and her child.

“I can’t wait to meet them,” he whispers.

“Me, too.” She puts her hand over the one he has on her stomach. “You know you’re nowhere near it?”

He raises his head, looking. “Oh, yeah. Guess I’m fondly petting your intestinal region.”

She smiles and guides his hand down, into the top of her jeans, and presses his fingertips against her skin just over her pubic bone.

“There,” she says.

She hears Foggy smile, holding her close.

“Hey there,” he whispers.

She knows she’s smiling, even as she feels her eyes fill with tears.

_You’re going to be such a good dad._

She still doesn’t know how to be a good mother.

They won’t make a general announcement until her first trimester is over, but there are certain things she needs to take care of. Like Hell’s Kitchen. She sits in Trish Walker’s living room, drinking water, and asks if Trish has spoken to Melvin.

“He’s making me a suit,” Trish says.

“Does Jessica know?”

“I’ll tell her…before I go out.”

“So you _are_ planning on going out.”

Trish puts down her glass.

“I’ve always wanted to help people. And I should thank you, for showing me that I can. For showing me that I don’t need super-strength to do that. So yeah, I’m going out.”

“Good,” Mattie says, smiling. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Keep an eye on Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Of course. But aren’t you…?”

“Extenuating circumstances. I’m not going to be around much, for a while.”

Trish nods. “I just nodded. Of course. A lot of people who need help, there.”

“That’s true.”

When she gets home, she calls Claire.

“Hey, Foggy,” Claire’s voice comes over the phone.

“Actually, it’s me,” Mattie says.

“What - Mattie?!”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were dead! Luke said Foggy said you were dead!”

“I…when was the last time you talked to Luke?”

“Last month? Things got pretty crazy, and I need to talk to you.”

“I need to talk to you too. Come over?”

As soon as Claire arrives, she launches into the story of the past few weeks. Colleen Wing. Danny Rand, the Immortal Iron Fist. The Hand, Madam Gao, even Jeri Hogarth.

“Danny and Colleen went to Nepal, they’re going to talk to the people in K’un-Lun, but…you’re right. This city needs you,” Claire finishes.

“Not now,” Mattie says.

“Yes, now! They’re here -“

“I’m pregnant,” Mattie interrupts.

She’s pretty certain Claire is staring at her.

“That’s…wow. Not what I was expecting,” Claire says.

“Technically, I’m the one who’s expecting.”

“Shut up,” Claire says fondly. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah.” Mattie fidgets with her glass. “I need your help, Claire.”

“I’m not being your OB/GYN,” Claire says quickly.

“That’s not what I was going to ask. I was going to ask for a referral? Preferably…someone who’s not going to be weirded out by some…unusual physiology?”

“Oh. Yeah. Uh…Oh! Yeah, I know someone, she used to work at Metro General. She’s a GP, but…yeah, she’ll be good.”

“Thank you.”

“So…you retiring?”

“Only temporarily.” Mattie grins. “What else should I be doing?”

Claire rattles off a list of foods she can’t eat.

“And you should keep working out, but no…high-impact activities?” Claire finishes.

“So, no parkour, no martial arts, and -“

“No vigilantism.”

“What _will_ I do with myself?”

Claire’s head turns as she looks around. “Are you working?” she says.

Mattie shakes her head. “Nobody’s going to hire me while I’m pregnant.”

“Well, none of the big fancy firms,” Claire says. “But there are plenty of people you could still help.”

“I can’t afford to open a new firm right now.” _Tempting as that would be._

“So let them come to you. Work from home. I happen to know there’s a PI downstairs who has…unusual physiology, and might need legal help once in a while.”

“Oh, you’ve met Jessica?”

“Yeah. She shot Luke in the head, I had to stick a needle in his eye to drain the fluid.”

“Didn’t you have to deep-fry him in acid, too?”

“That…is a thing that happened.”

“How is it that the man who’s bulletproof is the one you’ve got the grossest stories about?”

“I also stapled Danny Rand back together.”

“Surgical staples?”

“Regular.”

Mattie shivers, grimacing.

“Speaking of which,” Claire continues, “there’s a lot going on out there. Stuff you’re already involved in. Maybe…two unemployed girls can try to figure it out, put it together.”

“Sounds like it could be dangerous.”

“I…will take care of you. No high-impact activity for you.”

“Deal.”

They tell Foggy’s family, asking them to be discreet. Candace makes a noise that Mattie is sure only she and dogs can hear, and Edward and Anna immediately start offering to help with this, or that, and Mattie holds Foggy’s hand and tries not to look like a stunned bunny at the sheer magnitude of what they’re undertaking.

They’re going to have a _baby_. 

She wants to ask Anna how to be a mother, but she can’t put it into words.

And there’s one more person she needs to tell.

She still hates the smell of the hospital as she wanders the halls, listening for the heartbeat. The one that hadn’t wavered when Sister Maggie had said, “She’s family.” It had been true. She finds the nun in the long-term care ward, her hands clasped around a bedridden patient’s. Mattie leans against the doorframe and waits.

She hears Sister Maggie’s heart speed up when she sees her.

“Take your time,” Mattie says quietly.

The patient crosses herself. “Thank you, Sister,” she says.

“Of course, Isabel,” Sister Maggie says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She follows Mattie out into the hall. “You’re looking well.”

“I’m a lot better,” Mattie says. “I wanted to say thank you.”

Maggie hesitates. “There’s no need to thank me. Sanctuary is something the Church has always provided.” She pats Mattie’s arm. “I should go.”

“I also wanted to tell you,” Mattie says, before Maggie can turn away, “you’re going to be a grandmother.”

There’s no disguising Maggie’s reaction, heart and breath. She’s surprised. Shocked, even. Her hand flies up to her face, covering her mouth for a moment.

“You’re…” she whispers.

“I’m going to have a baby,” Mattie says, trying to keep her voice even. “I just thought you should know.”

Maggie’s hand is resting over her heart. “I…I think we should go and sit somewhere, don’t you?”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

Maggie leads her to the hospital chapel, which is empty and quiet. They sit in the back.

“You must have so many questions,” Maggie says.

“That…is an understatement,” Mattie says. She has a lifetime’s worth of questions, some angry, some not. They hover in the air, and she can’t pick one.

“When are you due?” Maggie says.

“January, we think,” Mattie says, still a little dazed.

“I’m sorry, you’re the one who should be asking questions.”

Mattie nods. “Why now?”

“You needed me.”

“I _needed_ you when Dad died,” Mattie says, her voice rising a little. “And when the accident happened, and -“ She clenches her jaw, refusing to cry.

“Your dad didn’t think it would be a good idea for me to come back, after the accident. Too much had happened, and I…I wasn’t going to leave the Church, so -“

“But you came to the hospital. You knew, about me.”

“I pieced it together.”

“And after Dad died?”

Maggie lets out a long breath. “That’s complicated.”

“So’s the rest of my life.”

“Did you hear the news, a few weeks ago? About that medical research firm?”

_Of course_ is hovering on Mattie’s tongue, but she realizes that her name was carefully kept out of Ben and Karen’s story, and the police reports have been kept confidential.

“My friends broke the story,” she says instead.

“They were paying your father, covering your medical bills. And when he died, they tracked me down, before I even knew what had happened, and tried to have me sign…you…over to them.”

Mattie remembers being blind and overwhelmed and scared when Child Services had taken her at first, and being told they were trying to find her mother. And, later, being told that she was nowhere to be found, but St Agnes had a place for her.

“They said they had a place, for special needs children, where they’d take care of you.” Maggie shakes her head, and Mattie can hear the soft sound of her wimple around her shoulders. “But, well, I’d been politically active long enough by then to know not to trust something that just falls into your lap. And I did a little digging, and I couldn’t find…anything. Anything at all. They were ghosts. All I could find were rumours.”

“Which were probably true,” Mattie says softly.

“They’d already found me once. I couldn’t risk them finding you, not if what I suspected had happened in the accident was true. So I asked Sister Magdalena to protect you.”

“What does Sister Magdalena have to do with this?”

“You didn’t think she was always a nun?” Actually, Mattie had never thought of Sister Magdalena as anything _other_ than a nun. Maggie chuckles. “I’ve never asked, what her story is. But…I know that there are very powerful people who trust her to protect children, to make sure they’re never found by the ones looking for them.” She reaches out, putting her hand over Mattie’s clenched in her lap. “I’m sorry, Mattie. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you. I’m sorry I missed…so much. But I’m so proud of you, of the woman you’ve become, of everything that you’ve achieved.”

Mattie convulsively grabs at Maggie’s hand, holding it tight. _My mother’s hand._

“I’m really scared,” she admits.

Maggie puts her second hand over theirs clasped together. “Every parent is. It doesn’t go away.”

“Don’t go away again,” Mattie says. “I…I want you…to be part of this. I want you to meet Foggy, meet…” She nods down, at herself, “whoever this is going to be.” She swallows. “Please?”

“I’d like that.”

She feels lighter as she takes the train back to Manhattan, for the first time at peace with one of the many angry parts of herself. At home, she sits on the fire escape as the sun goes down, meditating, listening to the tiny hum of a heart (not even a heart yet, a proto-heart) inside her, and for the first time, she doesn’t panic thinking about the future.

“Hey,” Foggy says, climbing out. “How’d it go?”

“Good.”

He puts his arm around her shoulders, and she leans against him. 

“You OK?” he says.

“Yeah…yeah, I really am.”

They stay there together, listening to the sounds of Hell’s Kitchen.

“Hey, Mattie, you want to make a quick buck?” Jessica’s voice comes from beneath them.

“Doing what?” Mattie says, sitting up from where she was leaning against Foggy.

Jessica climbs up the ladder to their level.

“Client thinks her husband’s cheating, need to follow him tonight, figure out if he’s screwing his colleague or just having drinks. Got the assistant to tell me where he’ll be, and it’s not exactly the kind of place I’ll blend in.”

“So you’re asking me?”

“Figured your super-hearing would make this a whole lot easier.”

Mattie shrugs. “Sure.”

“Yeah, you’re going to make my life so much easier,” Jessica says. “Come down in an hour, I’ll get Trish to drop off some dresses you can wear.” She climbs back down to her floor.

“Are you trying to exploit my hyper-senses?” Mattie says.

Jessica shrugs. “Let’s see how it goes.” She climbs through the window into her apartment.

“What just happened?” Mattie says.

“I’m not sure, but I think I should get you a fedora and a trench coat. You’d look pretty cute, and I still owe you a birthday present.”

She turns to kiss him. “I don’t need a birthday present,” she says. “All I need is you.”

She presses her lips against Foggy’s, and feels the three heartbeats: her own in her chest, Foggy’s rumbling against her, and the tiny one, low down.

_I’m Mattie Murdock. I’m Daredevil. And I’m not afraid._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, that closing line is from Charles Soule's first issue for Daredevil. Always wanted to find a place for it. :)
> 
> Don't forget to drop a note when you're finished! Thank you, all of you, for reading!


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